THESE CHARMING PEOPLE
Messrs, Collins zvtlly in
the near futurCy publish
THE DARK ANGEL
A Novel
by
MICHAEL ARLEN
THESE
CHARMING PEOPLE
Being a tapestt^ of the fortuneSy follies^ adventureSy
galanteries and general activities of Shelmerdene
{that lovely lady)y Lord TarlyoHy Mr, Michael
Wagstajfcy Mr, Ralph Wyndham Trevor
and some others of their friends of
the lighter sort: written down hy
Mr, Ralph Wyndham Trevor
and arranged by
MICHAEL ARLEN
Author of “ Piracy ”
J.ONDON: 48 PALL MALL
W. COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright. 1923
Manufactufed in Gfeat Britain
THESE
CHARMING PEOPLE
Being a tafestry of the fortunes^ follies^ adventures^
galanteries and general activities of Shelmerdene
{that lovely lady\ Lord Tarlyon^ Mr, Michael
Wagstaffe^ Mr, Ralph Wyndham Trevor
and some others of their friends of
the lighter sort : written down by
Mr, Ralph Wyndham Trevor
and arranged by
MICHAEL ARLEN
Author of Ftracy ”
LONPON: 48 PALL MALL
W, COLLINS SONS & CO. LTD.
GLASGOW MELBOURNE AUCKLAND
Copyright, 1923
Memufaciufed in Great Britain
CONTENTS
PAQB
INTRODUCING A LADY OF NO IMPORTANCE AND
A GENTLEMAN OF EVEN LESS I
WHEN THE NIGHTINGALE SANG IN BERKELEY
SQUARE 15
THE HUNTER AFTER WILD BEASTS 38
THE MAN WITH THE BROKEN NOSE 49
THE LUCK OF CAPTAIN FORTUNE 74
THE ANCIENT SIN 86
THE CAVALIER OF THE STREETS 100
MAJOR CYPRESS GOES OFF THE DEEP END 122
CONSUELO BROWN I40
THE IRREPROACHABLE CONDUCT OF A GENTLE-
MAN WHO ONCE REFUSED A KNIGHTHOOD 151
SALUTE THE CAVALIER I72
THE SHAMELESS BEHAVIOUR OF A LORD 1 93
THE LOQUACIOUS LADY OF LANSDOWNE PASSAGE 204
THE SMELL IN THE LIBRARY 212
THE REAL REASON WHY SHELMERDENE WAS
*^LATE FOR DINNER 244
V
Introducing a JLady of No Importance and
a Gentleman of Even Less
There was, and (by the grace of God) there still
is, a lovely woman whom it once pleased a young
man to call Shelmerdene, because, he said, though
it is not her real name, it becomes her better than
any real name could. And about Shelmerdene
books have been written and for her men have died,
which just shows you the sort of woman she was.
Now it happened one day that Shelmerdene re-
tam^ to England after a long absence abroad in
Persia, but I can tell you nothing about that
because I knoAv nothing of Persia, except that it
is rather inadequately governed by a Shah who is
a pretty fat young man and wears a diamond in
his hat.
Among other entertainments that we, her friends,
contrived for Shelmerdene, as a welcome and a
token of our enduring affection, a great house-party
was arranged by Aubrey Carlyle ; whereby, on a
week-end in May, a great company of agreeable
people was gathered together at Malmanor Park,
a vast Elizabethan sort of place in ancient red that
lies on a velvet plain between a brooding hill and
the*^eculiar wood of Carmion; for it is said of
I
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
an unfair thing to ask of a man ? ** And the
young writer looked up at Shelmerdene with a
self-pitying smile, while she stood beside him,
pJaying thoughtfully with the catch of an ancient
pink shagreen cigarette-case, whicii had once been
vanity-box in chief to Queen Marie Antoinette,
so they said.
"Now who shall describe Shelmerdene of the
dark sleek hair, of the lips that smiled un-
accountably, of the blue eyes that were gentle and
witty and alight with understanding ? She was
lithe and dark-haired, and her face was white, and
her eyes were as blue as night and as impersonal
as the stars. She wore, this morning, a jumper
of vermilion silk, and her skirt was thus and thus,
and sweetly rakish on her head was a brown "felt
hat with a wade stiff brim, and on her feet were
brown brogues of Russian leather, such as only
men-servants can properly polish, women being
what they are.
Shelmerdene smiled down at Raymond Paris,
the young writer who could not write a story.
I will tell you a story,’' she said. I will tell
it quite plainly, but afterwards you may decorate
it with fine words and epigrams, and make it a
story fit for an editor to read. No, I wpn't sit
dowm, but you may continue to. This story, my
dear, begins with me. All my stories do, though
they generally end with some one else ; that is
called making a mess of' one's life', Raymond! I
4
and a Gentleman of Even Less
was married very young, and an unhappy marriage
it was, so that we parted rather grimly, that queer
man and I. He would not divorce me a^d I
could not divorce him, for he was a pure man.
Somewhere in feis world, Raymond, there is a
stem man who is my husband, and you must
always remember that in any conversation with
me, for he is not at all the kind of man whom
one can forget. I have tried to, and so I know.
He was very good-looking in a naval sort of way
— which was just as well, as he w'as in the navy
— and his eyes had that bleary, bitten look which
they tell you comes from being out on the high seas
in all weathers, Mt you and I know that it comes
from drinking gin-and-bitters at all hours, there
l')eiifg so little else to do on a battleship. Anyway,
there he is and here am I ; pride parted us once,
and now the years part us, and God only knows
what will happen, if indeed He's at all interested
in such silly people.
“ I fell in love. ' Fall ' is exactly the word in
this context, and I did not rise quickly. That is
called being a loose woman, Raymond, but you
need not put this part into your story ; I am just
explaining myself to you out of affection and
because^ it is a May morning.
“ My story is about how I fell in love with a
stone image ; for women are sometimes like sea-
birds, they sometimes worship stone images, men
wh^Tare carveef of the rocky stuff of life. ... All
5
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
men and women are in a conspiracy to hide a secret,
and the secret that lies in the hearts of all men and
won^n is that they want to be loved. It sounds
almost too pathetic, Raymond, but it is true.
I fell in love with this young manf and I wanted to
be loved by him. But he would not — Raymond, do
you understand, he would not love me ! Those, of
course, were not his exact words, but it came to
that. Why is it always the wrong men who fall
in love with one, Raymond ? My lovely stone
image told me that he didn't deserve being loved
by me, because, because — oh, how the poor boy
hesitated ! — ^he hadn’t it in him to love ajiy one.
He simply couldn’t love, he said — and he felt such
a brute ! And then he tried to weigh his words
carefully. He liked me, he said, as much aS' he
could like any one, but he didn’t think he loved me
— ^mark that glorious, arrogant think, Raymond !
And also tell me when I am boring you. . . .
“As he spoke, over luncheon it was, I watched
the blue eyes which tried to look straight into mine
but couldn’t, because he was shy. He was trying
to be honest with me, you see, and trying to be
honest with women makes men shy. He felt such
a brute, he kept on saying, he . . . yes, he did
love me in his way, he suddenly admitted. But
his way wasn’t, simply couldn’t be, mine. He
simply couldn’t give himself wholly to any one —
and he so frightfully wanted to, he felt he was
missing such lovely things ! '
6
and a Gentleman of Even Less
“ I was a fool, of course — I mean, to believe what
he said about not loving me. Oh, what an utter
fool I was to believe him ! But, all the same, I
climg to my pathetic love-affair with both hands,
ever so tight. 1 did indeed, Raymond. It is
extraordinary how unattainable a woman can
make a man she isn’t sure of ! Maybe you have
been unattainable to some woman, Ra3Tnond, or
maybe you will be. It wiU be fun for you.
“If it hadn’t been that my husband would not
divorce me I would have dragged that lovely
stone-image to the altar. It would have been better
so, our lives would have been quite different and
perhaps quite beautiful ; but what actually hap-
pened was also quite beautiful, in an irregular kind
of way.
“ I had set out, you see, to make myself essential
to him, mentally, physically, every way. If he
couldn’t love me as a man loves a woman then he
must love me as a tree loves the creepers that
cling round it. Oh dear, how extraordinarily silly
one gets ! I was terribly serious, Ra 3 nnond. I
always am, which is perhaps what keeps me young
— but do I look young, yoimgish ? Quick, tell me !
Oh, you are sweet, Raymond !
“ But I hadn’t much time in which to make
myself necessary to him — that young man who
said he couldn’t give himself wholly to any
wogjan, who sa^idwiched a woman between a dead
salmon and a dead grouse ! He was the eldest
7
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
son of a great house, but in the meantime he was
a soldier, and he had the frozen blue eyes which
make a good soldier, as soldiers go — and he was
going, Raymond ! under special orders for East
Africa, where he would have *^to stay several
months. Just a few weeks I had, then, to make
him feel that he couldn't bear life, in Africa or
an3rwhcre else, without me. And, my dear, the
world didn't hold a more perfect dream than that
in which he would come to me and offer to risk
his career for me ! That is what is called being a
cad, Raymond, and women are rather good at it.
I wanted him to offer me his ambition, and then
I would consider whether or not I would give it
back to him. But he didn't. I lost.
And I had seemed so like winning, too ! For,
ten days before he was to sail, he had insisted on
taking me away from I^ondon, saying that London
was getting between us and that we must go away
into the country, just to breathe and to love.
That is not, of course, how he put it, Raymond,
but that was his meaning, and very, very happy
it made me. Imagine ! Severf days we spent
together in a funny sweet little inn under the
shadows of those toy hills which are called
mountains in Wales ; but I will not lell you
about those days, for they are a very intimate
memory, and even if I did you could not put
them into your story, for your editor would WQ;;^der
if you were mad, saying that the British pubhc
8
and a Gentleman of Even Less
I was a fool, of course — I mean, to believe what
he said about not loving me. Oh, what an utter
fool I was to believe him ! But, all the samo, I
clung to my pathetic love-affair with both hands,
ever so tight. 1 did indeed, Raymond. It is
extraordinary how unattainable a woman can
make a man she isn’t sure of ! Maybe you have
been unattainable to some woman, Raymond, or
maybe you will be. It will be fun for you.
“If it hadn’t been that my husband would not
divorce me I would have dragged that lovely
stone-image to the altar. It would have been better
so, our lives would have been quite different and
perhaps quite beautiful ; but what actually hap-
pened was also quite beautiful, in an irregular kind
of way.
“ I had set out, you see, to make myself essential
to him, mentally, physically, every way. If he
couldn’t love me as a man loves a woman then he
must love me as a tree loves the creepers that
cling round it. Oh dear, how extraordinarily silly
one gets ! I was terribly serious, Raymond. I
always am, which is perhaps what keeps me young
— but do I look young, youngish ? Quick, tell me !
Oh, you are sweet, Raymond !
But J hadn’t much time in which to make
myself necessary to him — ^that young man who
said he couldn’t give himself wholly to any
wonj^, who san^iwiched a woman between a dead
salmon and a dead grouse ! He was the eldest
7
Iniroducing a Lady of No Importance
son of a great house, but in the meantime he was
a soldier, and he had the frozen blue eyes which
make a good soldier, as soldiers go — ^and he wa^
going, Raymond ! under special orders for East
Africa, where he would have*" to stay several
months. Just a few weeks I had, then, to make
him feel that he couldn't bear life, in Africa or
anywhere else, without me. And, my dear, the
world didn’t hold a more perfect dream than that
in which he would come to me and offer to risk
his career for me ! That is what is called being a
cad, Ra3nnond, and women are rather good at it.
I wanted him to offer me his ambition, •and then
I would consider whether or not I would give it
back to him. But he didn't. I lost.
And I had seemed so like winning, too ! For,
ten days before he was to sail, he had insisted on
taking me away from London, saying that London
was getting between us and that we must go away
into the country, just to breathe and to love.
That is not, of course, how he put it, Raymond,
but that was his meaning, and very, very happy
it made me. Imagine 1 Seven days we spent
together in a funny sweet little inn under the
shadows of those toy hills which are called
mountains in Wales ; but I will not dell you
about those days, for they are a very intimate
memory, and even if I did you could not put
them into your story, for your editor would vender
if you were mad, sa3dng that the British public
8
and a Gentleman of Even Less
will put up with much but not with as much as
that. But, all the same, they were a wonderful
seven days, and as we sat silently facing each
other in the train back to London, silent because
there was too muRi to talk about, I knew I had
won. There were three days left.
** In London he dropped me at my house, and
he was to return in the evening to take me out to
dinner. But he was back within an hour, and when
I went downstairs I found him pacing impatiently
up and down the drawing-room. He told me that
his orders had been changed ; he had to go to
Paris first, and th^n take ship at Marseilles.
'' To Paris ! '' I said, not understanding.
" Yes, to-night, in two hours,' he said quickly,
shyly. He was en^arrassed at the idea of a
possible scene. And oh, those frozen blue eyes,
those frozen blue eyes of pro-consular men ! He
must go at once, he said. He shook both my
hands ; and he held them a little while in that
pathetic attempt at tenderness which sometimes
overtakes Englishmen when they are eager to go
and do something* else. He would write to me, he
said. He mumbled something about my being a
darling, but I simply hadn't a word. It was all
just as though nothing had ever happened to us,
as though we had never been to the little Welsh
inn, or played and laughed and loved, as though
he hg^ never begged me to run my fingers through
his hair because I had said his hair was a
9
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
garden where golden flowers grew. Englishmen
are very odd, Ra 3 miond. He was going away!
Eu4 he would write to me, he said, and would be
back in twelve months or so . . . and he almost
forgot to kiss me. But what Ste kisses?
Now this is wheje, Raymond, in writing this
story, your craftsmanship must come in. You
must be v'ery clever just here, Raymond. You
must manage to convey that, though I was not a
bad loser by nature, I was terribly wretched for
a time : that I simply didn't exist. You must fill
in the gap with some fine prose and acute observa-
tion — ^the horrible gap between the time he went
away and the time when I again began to take
notice of life. You can’t both be loyal to me and
true to life, Raymond, so you had better be romantic
about it. You will find it quite easy to be romantic
about other people's troubles.
I didn't forget him. I have never forgotten
him, that stone image which stood in my heart
and then broke itself to pieces because of some
law I did not, do not, understand. But there is
a law I do understand, a cruel kind of law, and thaj:
is the law of reaction. He wrote me letters at long
intervals ; cold, honest bits of writing, strong-and-
silent-backbone-of-Empire stuff, and rathei>pompous
with their appreciations of me tacked on to descrip-
tions of the desert and the natives. But I wrote to
him only once, explaining myself,, explaining^him.
Oh, it was a wonderful letter, the one wonderful
10
and a Gentleman of Even Less
letter of my life ! I gave all I had to give in that
letter, but it didn’t seem to warm him at all, and I
hadn’t the heart or the energy to write again. •
He became a tender memory . . . and I fell in
love again, RaymoBd. But not as with my stone
image, ! This was the sort of man who didn’t
<X)untA4aw|li>t in that I loved him, or thought I did.
He wiJs 'feally no more than the servant of my
react^:^ainst the stone image, and to serve me
well %.Wtd to help me demolish all the castles of
sentiment I had built around him. And the stoutest
and most beautiful castle of all I had built around
that funny little Welsh inn I The memory of our
days there hauntea me : it made everything else
seem not worth while, and so I told myself that
something must be done about that, else it looked
to be spoiling my whole life with regrets. Nothing
in the world repeats itself except regret — and, of
course, sardines. And so, Raymond, I set my horse
to, that last castle, to crash into it recklessly,
gallantly, and to stride and laugh about its halls
with another man, who was not a stone image, not
so beautiful. •
We went, my reaction and I. In an exceedingly
fast car we went, going ever so fast, so that when
I tumbled out of it at that inn I had had no time
to think. Now the sweetest thing in that little inn
was its miniature dining-room, which was entirely
comp^ed of a large bow window and three little
tables ; and the largest thing about it was the view
T.C.P. II B
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
of the hills all round, and a brown stream which
tumbled about at the bottom of the garden and
made more noise than you could believe possible
for so little a thing. My stone image and I had
sat at the table by the bow wiftdow, and now my
reaction and I sat there again. I dreamed, he ate.
My bach was to the door, and I sat facing a large
mirror, the stream and the hills on my right ; he
sat facing the window, adoring me, the adventure,
the hills, the food. I wasn't unhappy ; perhaps I
was a little absent-minded, but I am sure I wasn't
unhappy — ^until, in the mirror in front of me, I
saw the great figure, the fair hair, the froaien blue
eyes, at the open door. Our eyes met in the mirror,
the eyes of statues, wondering, waiting. . . .
“Shall I tell you I was afraid, or ashamed, or
intolerably miserable ? I don't know what I felt, it
is a dead moment. I don't know how long he stood
there, filling the doorway with his great figure, filling
my life with his stern eyes. But it couldn't have been
for long, perhaps a few seconds ; and once he took
his eyes off mine and looked at the man beside me,
who hadn't seen him. I thought his lips twitched,
but then something happened to my sight, and the
mirror clouded over. When I could see again, the
door was closed, the magic mirror was empty of
all but my unbelieving eyes and the profile of the
man beside me, who didn't know and was never
to know that I had lived a century while hg^ate a
potato.
12
and a Gentleman of Even Less
** All that he did know was that the next morning
I begged him to observe but not, please, to comment
on my movements, which were in the direction df a
London train, I treated that man abominably,
abominably. But"* he never had a chance. . . .
When I got home I found a wire. I had given orders
for nothing, not even wires, to be sent on to me.
This one had come an hour after I had left for
Wales. It was from Southampton. ' Just arrived.
Am going straight up to the little place in Wales.
Will arrive there dinner-time. Shall we dine
together by the window 7 * ”
Shelmerdene was rather absent-minded as she
finished her story ; she forgot to smile. It was very
careless of Shelmerdene to forget to smile, for it
made Raymond Paris feel shy ; he fiddled with
his pen ; he coughed.
Well,** said Shelmerdene, at last, “ won*t that
story do for you, Ra 3 nnond ? Or is it not interesting
enough ? Not enough action ? **
“ Of course, it*s frightfully interesting,** Raymond
Paris protested. “ But — well, you see, editors are
rather odd. It isif t a story at ail, really, don*t you
see. . . .*'
" An episode, perhaps ? **
The young man started at a certain quality in
her voice ; something seemed to have suddenly
broken in Shelmerdene’s voice. Wondering, he
stare^at the lady who stood above him by the table,
her fingers playing thoughtfully with the ancient
13
Introducing a Lady of No Importance
pink shagreen cigarette-case, which had once been
vanity-box in chief to Marie Antoinette, so they
said. And he followed her eyes out of the window
into the garden below, the garden brave with the
gay tall tulips of many colours.* A man was walk-
ing in the garden, not heeding the tulips, not heeding
anything, the back of a great figure of a man with
a golf-bag swung across it, a lounging man with
hands stuck very deep into plus-fours and a pipe
screwed into the corner of his mouth ; and the tall
man's hair was extraordinarily fair in the sunlight.
George Tarlyon was walking through the garden
of tulips on his way to a morning round of golf. ^
Yes, an episode, that's all it is," said Shelmer-
dene queerly, and still her face forgot to smile.
" That's how he would think of it now. He has had
his lesson, you see — and many episodes ! And so
all the childishness has gone out of him. ... He
can't be hurt by a face in a mirror now, Raymond !
He would just laugli, and he has an eighteenth-
century kind of laugh. Poor lamb, all the childish-
ness has been spilled out of him."
And Shelmerdene's eyes softly followed the figure
among the tall tulips, while young Raymond Paris
murmured : "You see, what editors want is a story
with some sort of point. ..." ♦
14
When tJie Nightingale Sang in
Berkeley Square
There is a tale that is told in London about a
nightingale, how it did this and that and, finally,
for no apparent reason, rested and sang in
Berkeley Square. A well-known poet, critic, and
commentator heard it, and it is further alleged
that he was sober. Some men, of course, now say
that it was not a nightingale at all, but only the
South wind singing in the trees of the square, but
it is a fact that some men wiU say anything. And
some men have formed a Saint James’s Square
school of thought, but it was in Berkeley Square
that the poet, critic, and commentator, who was
sober, distinctly heard the song of the nightingale,
on a night in the heart of the drought of the year
1921.
In the drawing(room of a house midway on the
entailed side of the square sat a lady and a
gentleman silently. Or rather, the lady lay,
while thft gentleman sat, and the sofa on which
she lay was far from the arm-chair in which he
sat. The room was spacious ; four shaded candles
in tali candle-sticks of ancient brass gave calm
colour to its dimness ; and four open windows,
15
When the Nightingale Sang
from which the curtains were withdrawn in slack
folds of shining silver, gave out to the leaves of the
tre%s, which murmured among themselves just a
little.
r
At last the gentleman roused himself from the
gloom of his chair in the recess of the room, and
threw back his head and stretched his arms so
that little things cracked behind his shoulders.
But the lady did not stir nor look round at him,
she lay still on the sofa by the windows, her head
deep in the hollow of a crimson cushion, her eyes
thoughtfully on the ceiling, which was high enough
to refuse itself to exact scrutiny in the affected
light of four candles.
The gentleman drew a cigar-case from his breast
pocket, and a cigar from the case. He bit the
cigar, and then he moved, to deposit what he had
bitten from the tip of his finger into an ash-tray.
Then he lit his cigar, thoughtfully, and he said :
“ Hell, it’s hot ! ”
" Perhaps, dear, it’s a rehearsal for same," said
the lady.
"I shouldn’t wonder," he said, and stood with
his back to the great Adam fireplace, and smoked
his cigar, He was of medium-height, weathered
looking, and broadly set : getting a little stout
lately, and his fair hair thinning at the top., A
commonplace face, you might call it, but the nose
was good : straight, short and sensitive^ very
English. This was Ralph Loyalty, whose aunt,
i6
in Berkeley Square
the late John Loyalty,” had delighted our
fathers with her books, which were of the
sentimental-sophisticated sort and have now dated
a good deal. Ralph Loyalty was more than
usually happy in*his aunt, for she had left him
a fortune, a famous name, but, people said,
only the more solid side of her good sense.
He was a man who liked the company of men ;
his recreations were golf, joining clubs, auction-
bridge, and dining \vith his wife ; he enjoyed
George Robey, and he admired other people's
brains. Some people thought him rather solid
and unimaginative^ estimable qualities,” they
said, ” but rather heavy on the hand.” But, as
” Ralph ” in half a dozen clubs meant Ralph
Loyalty, other people said that popularity was his
form of genius, and they were probably right.
He was said to be in love with his wife. He
tolerated rakes, cads, and co-respondents among his
acquaintance, but he never understood them.
Effeminate men he laughed at rather shyly, and
left it at that. He had no enemies, but most of his
wife's friends disliked him. They would have
been surprised to see him at this moment, so
miserable he looked, but they would not have been
surprised® at his wife's attitude on the sofa, for
naturally she was bored to death with the man.
His wife's friends had long since despaired
of R^h Loyalty ever seeing that his wife was
bored to death with him, and that is why they
17
When the Nightingale Sang
would have been surprised to see him now, for it
was obviously because he had realised that this
evening, at last, that he looked so miserable.
" Well . began Ralph Loyalty suddenly,
and then very deliberately knocked the ash of his
cigar into the fireplace, which was unlike him with
an ash-tray at hand, for he was an orderly man.
And then he said a wicked word and banged out
of the room. The candles flickered madly in the
sudden draught.
But it was as though Mrs. Loyalty did not hear
the crash of the door, she did not stir. She did not
sigh, nor did she instantly light a match for«the
cigarette which had lain for many minutes for-
gotten near her hand.
Joan Loyalty was dark, or rather her hair was
dark, and darker than ever against the crimson
cushion. But her face was fair, English fair ; and
many generations had gone to the establishing of
her complexion and the exact shaping of her delicate
aquiline nose. But it was her eyes that were
important, to the student of such things. Joan
Loyalty belonged to the society of the day,
and of that society her face, the oval sort, was,
her friends said in their loose way, in the
best way “ typical.” She was of the type early
twentieth century, but her gestures, and lack of
them, were ancient enough, for they were fully
expressive of that which really differentiate men
from beasts, the social quality of being tired. But
i8
in Berkeley Square
beneath that manner, that classical insolence which
is inadequately called affectation, lay a Joan who
was as sudden and as simple as the first womto.
And that is why her eyes were important, to the
student of such things, for in them was that thing
which defies the analysing of novelists and dema-
gogues, the thoughtful look which may only be
thinking of a walk in a field with a dog and a stick,
the curious, absent look which can smell the sea
from a long way off.
At last Mrs. Loyalty lit her cigarette, and she
rose from the sofa, and for a few minutes she
listened to the murmuring of the leaves in the
square ; and then she crossed the dimness of the
room to a bell-button, and pressed it.
Smith came, and she said :
Downstairs in the study you will find a book,
probably on the small table by the window. A
slim, blue book, by a Mr. Beerbohm. Please bring
it to me.''
'Die shadow of Smith hovered doubtfully among
the shadows by the door.
“ Mr. Loyalty isf in the study, madam, and told
me he was not to be disturbed."
“ Ah," said Mrs. Loyalty softly. And she smiled,
and when she smiled you understood why dogs
liked her at once.
" All right. Smith," she said. " I will fetch it
myself^'
The shadow of Smith vanished in a flickering of
19
When the Nightingale Sang
candles, but Mrs. Loyalty did not follow him at
once. She stood where Ralph Loyalty had stood,
w4th her back to the great Adam fireplace ; in a
gesture of tired thought she clasped her hands
behind her head, and from the motionless cigarette
between her lips the smoke floated upwards without
a curve until it faded, for she was forgetting to
draw it. Then, suddenly, she dropped the half-
smoked cigarette into the empty grate, an untidy
habit of hers with, which her husband could not
ever quite overlook, and left the room.
The quality of silence was very noticeable about
the figure of Mrs. Loyalty : it had been favourably
commented on by distinguished foreigners, who say
that though foreign women are noisy talkers,
Englishwomen are noisy walkers ; which, however,
sounds like a generalisation, and should be mis-
trusted as such.
But silence was, in a particular way, a quality
of Mrs. Loyalty's figure, just like its slimness.
And when, a few minutes later, she re-entered the
room with her book in her hand, it was almost as
though she had not re-entered^ the room or had
never left it ; perhaps a shadow faintly stirred
among the shadows by the door, but the draught
of her coming in did not seem to dkturb the
sensitive light of the candles.
She moved one of them to the little table at
the head of the sofa, she sat against the crimson
cushion, and she read her book. But minutes passed
20
in Berkeley Square
and she did not turn over the page, so perhaps
she was just pretending to read. Minutes passed,
and then the light of fhe candles writhed across
her page, and she looked up to see a great dis-
turbance among the shadows by the door. She
stared with very wide eyes at the dark apparition
there, and her hand went to her heart in a still
way she had, and she sighed curiously. The
apparition came forward, and she stared at it with
almost unbelieving eyes.
Joan,’’ the apparition said, I never thought
I should live to see you look frightened ! ” A gay
voice, rather shy.
He stood before her, a tall, very thin man,
stoop^g a little, with feverish dark eyes set in a
notably ascetic face, which had gained for him the
comical name of The Metaphysician.” His face
was as though a fever lay behind it, a kind of
sombre restlessness, but every now and then it
would twitch into a shy smile ; his face looked
as though it had suffered much pain, but had
never got used to pain. He smiled down at her
intimately, but al& shyly, which made the smile
very attractive.
” Well,” she said up to him softly, ” you did
come in Ather like a ghost, didn’t you ? ” She
seemed to examine him.
“ Didn’t Ralph tell you I was coming ? ”
That^ seemed <o surprise her, but she only
shook her head slightly.
21
When the ’Nightingale Sang
I saw Ralph at the club this evening and told
him I might look in,*' he added.
•‘^He didn’t tell me/' she said. ‘'But why
didn’t you let me know ? "
“ You see, Joan,” said Hugo Carr, ” I’ve had as
much as I can bear of this hole-and-corner business.”
A shy way Mr. Carr had ; he would say firm things
in a very shy voice, with the fever always behind
his face That’s what makes him attractive to
women, people said. ” Hugo lays down the law,”
once said George Tarlyon, ” as though he were
laying eggs and was afraid they might break.”
He sat down on the sofa beside her, very* close ;
on the edge of the sofa, sideways to her, with one
‘knee almost on the ground. She lit a cigarette :
and, seeing the appeal on his face, she smiled a little,
her lips smiled, and she said softly :
” Forgive me, dear, but I feci very silent. The
heat, perhaps. But go on with your speech —
please do ! And I’m hoping, too, that it will contain
some inside information as to why you have not
been to see me or even rung me up for a week.
It’s such bad luck for a womcdi,” she said softly,
” when a man of honour remembers his honour.
Don’t you think so, Hugo ? ”
Her eyes looked as though she had** left them
on guard somewhere, watching something for her.
But he didn’t notice that. He was one of those
feverish men who never notice anything b^xt other
people’s feverishness, at wliich they feel aggrieved.
22
in Berkeley Square
'' See, Joan/' he began nervously. You and
I have been living a lie for two years. There's
no getting out of it — ^for two whole years ! We'vfe
drugged ourselves and each other with saying we
couldn't help it
‘‘ You have," she murmured. I don't need
drugs.'
" Yes, 1 have," he agreed quickly. " And you
have lei> me. Because there was nothing we could
do — so we said." And suddenly he br(A:e off, and
put his hand on her knee. " Do you love me,
Joan ? "
" Yes," she said, no more, for Joan's love was
never expressed in words, she was not like that.
But it was his particular effeminacy, to be intensely
pleasec! to hear her say she loved him. He would
glow, de profundis. One of two people in love must
be effeminate, after all.
" That's been my one excuse," he said shyly.
" And it's my justification now for what I must
do — ^that we've loved each other for two years,
and still love each other. I'm going to ask Ralph
to-night to give you your freedom ..."
" So that's why you haven't been to see me for
a week ! "
" Yes. '€ wanted to be free to think. You
influence me frightfully, Joan, you're stronger
than I am, and so if I was to think our way out of
this muddle I had to do it alone. Ralph was my
best friend. And for two years you and I have
23
When the Nightingale Sang
been meeting each other secretly for lunch and for
the afternoons, and at home youVe been living
this lie with Ralph. YouVe sort of crucified
yourself, Joan, because you didn't want to hurt
Ralph. And I've let you ! * It's ghastly. And
Ralph has always trusted us together, he's made
it easy for us. It's ghastly, Joan."
" Yes, it's ghastly," she murmured from her
heart.
" Joan," her lover whispered, " in the secret
book in which our hves are being written, you will
appear as an angel and I as a cad. For that is
how it has been for two years . . ." And^Hugo
Carr of the sombre eyes and the thin face that
looked as though a fever lay behind it passed a
hand across his eyes ; and her arm crept up
round his shoulder, and she held his face very
near.
" Poor darling ! " she whispered. " You've
suffered frightfully, haven't you ? " And she did
Uttle things to comfort him.
" But you've suffered much more," he whispered
into her hair. He kissed her h^r. " And I've let
you — go on not hurting Ralph ! And what good
has it done ? Ralph suspects me. I know he
does. It's difftcult to explain ..." ‘
" But it will be all right now," Joan soothed his
wretchedness.
He turned her face to him and looked Jnto her
eyes, the grave eyes that looked as though she
24
in Berkeley Square
had left them on guard somewhere, watching
something for her.
" So you do agree with me now, Joan ? ” Ke
whispered gladly.
But she seemed A answer irrelevantly, with a
peculiar little laugh she had, which stabbed his
heart with a pleasure that was almost pain.
“ To agree or to disagree — what does it matter
to me, Hugo ! Only you matter, sitting here.
And I only matter because I am beside you. So
let’s be silent a little while, thinking of each
other. . . .”
And she turned very wretched eyes on him.
" Do you realise, Hugo, that you and I have
scarcelj' had a minute of silence together for two
years — ^you and I, whose lives are spent in chattering,
have had to go on chattering even when we were
alone, we could never forget ourselves or Ralph,
we had always to be discussing what we would do
and how we would do it and when we would do it.
Discussing and discussing and discussing 1 Oh,
dear, our love has been one endless discussion !
And we are not vefy young any more, my sweet !
But now we will be just silent, thinking of nothing
but each other — ^for the first time in two years,
we won’t think of Ralph, my dear, we just won’t !
To please me, Hugo. . . .”
It was an unusual pleasure for him to see her so
soft, she who was sa essentially fine that her natural
softness ^ad been merged into a great calmness :
35
When the Nightingale Sang
a delicious thing in a woman, calmness, but rather
frightening.
®But this was a matter of honour to-night. He
had betrayed his best friend for two years, and
would not betray him any longer. It had come to
a point of honour that he must tell Ralph Loyalty
that he loved Joan. And so now, even as he thrilled
at her sweetness, he would have liked to say to her
that his business to-night was with a point of
honour, but he was much too self-conscious to
be dramatic. He smiled self-consciously, and only
said :
" But I must see Ralph to-night, dear. •When
I came in I told Smith ''
Oh ! '' she cut impatiently in. ** Be silent,
Hugo, be silent — diet's enjoy ourselves while we
may ! " Nerves, of course. As herself admitted
immediately by asking, quite differently : “ What
did you say you told Smith ? Didn't he just tell
you I was up here alone ? ”
‘‘Yes. But I asked where Ralph was, and he
said in the study, and so I told him to teU Ralph
in an hour's time that I was h^e. He said Ralph
had given orders not to be disturbed, but I told
him he expected me — and so I suppose he'll be
here soon."
‘‘ Ah," sighed Joan.
" God, it will be difficult ! " Hugo muttered.
“ Dear old Ralph — ^the simplest man there ever
was 1 What an unholy mess life is, Joan — that
26
in Berkeley Square
you and I have to fight our way to happiness over
Ralph^s body, just because you met him before
you met me ! •
‘‘ Don't say that ! '' she cried sharply.
Nerves," she smiled away his bewilderment.
What I really meant was, don't say anything.
For if you told Smith to tell him in an hour's time
we've still half an hour or so together " She
held up her wrist to the candlelight — yes,
just about that, and then there vill be quite
enough talking and discussing. And I've got
something important to tell you, too, before he
comes in — but, dear, I must enjoy just a little
peace before the storm that will set me free, my
first bit of peace in two years." She pleaded with
him, <md it was delicious to hear Joan pleading,
she who was usually so calm and sensible. And
so they sat very close, hand in hand, like children.
But Smith's idea of an hour was influenced by
a not unnatural desire to go to bed; and they
had not enjoyed their peace for more than five
minutes when it was tremendously shattered by
footfalls on the stairs.
" OR, Lord ! " mifttered Hugo Carr. But rather
comically, for, after all, it had to be got over some
time. ^
Joan went queerly taut, and began to say
something, very swiftly, but the door opened just
then and he did not catch what it was.
Entered Smith — only Smith 1 And Hugo Carr
T.c.p. 27 c
When the Nightingale Sang
breathed relief that his point of honour had not
yet grown a point. Joan made no sign,
f Smith came forvt^ard quickly. The candles
flickered uneasily across his face. He addressed
Hugo Carr. c
“ Sir,” he said quickly, I went in to announce
you to Mr. Loyalty ” He broke off, and his
eyes hovered over Joan.
'' Yes, Smith ? ” she encouraged him softly.
Smith's eyes still hovered about her, he seemed
very perturbed. He addressed the air between
them.
” Mr. Loyalty's dead,” said Smith.
Smith was not a heartless man. He was moved,
and plunged again into the startled silence : ” I
went in and found him with his head laid*- across
the writing-table and a little bottle empty by his
hand. I shook ’im ...”
” My God ! ” muttered Hugo Carr. But still his
eyes were fixed on Smith, he could not look at Joan.
An analysis of suicide was not among Smith'^
duties. He only added : ” I have telephoned to
Dr. Gay, madam, and as he wa^s out playing bridge
I asked Mrs. Gay to ring him 'up to come here, as
it was very urgent.” Wise Smith ! What could
be more non-committal tlian ” very qrgent ” for
suicide ?
” My God ! ” muttered Hugo Carr — ^and jumped
up and strode away to the fireplace. He had
not yet looked at Joan. *
28
in Berkeley Square
But Smith looked at her, and she back at him.
Smith was a nice man, and he respected his mistress
immensely, her kind,
“ I am very sorry indeed, madam,” said Smith.
Joan's lips scarcely moved.
Thank you, Smith.”
Smith went out softly.
” I never dreamt ” Hugo Carr burst out,
then choked. It was as though he had swept his
arm round to ward off an intolerable thing and
had found the thing too intolerable.
Joan went to him.
” Hugo,” she awoke him softly. And he looked
at her for the first tune since Smith's entrance, his
eyes clung to her. A very fond gesture took her
hand to his shoulder — the tall, thin, stooping man
whose white face took a word as visibly as it
suffered a headache. Hugo Carr found many
things quite unbearable.
His eyes seemed to cling to her for a support
agiiinst his thoughts.
” It's ghastly,” he whispered. ” Joan, don't
you see — it's ghastly ! Poor old Ralph — down
there, all alone ! ‘Wiile we up here ” He
passed a hand over his mouth to stop its twitching ;
and it was as though his hand had put on it a
bitterness which was not there before. ” While we
up here were making love — ^his best friend and his
wife ! ”
Involtlhtarily he put the best friend first, for
29
When the Nightingale Sang
Hugo Carr loved his friends ; and, for him, friend-
ship was one of the first principles of the civilised
state. That is how he saw the civilised state.
'' Poor, poor Ralph I " she said ever so softly.
His eyes tore away from her face. As though
they hadn't been able to find there the support
they needed.
" There are some things . . he began feverishly.
'' Oh, my dear ! " Joan protested miserably,
as though against the unbearable philosophy of it.
But it is a mistake to protest against the unbearable
philosophy of a man of honour.
“ There are some things," Mr. Carr insisted ^with
feverish violence, " that are unpardonable and
unmendable. And there's no excuse big enough
for them ..."
He looked like a priest, a priest in the temple of
friendship, burning incense to the ideal idea . . .
And Joan nodded, her eyes on him who saw nothing
but the ruin of the ideal idea.
" God simply has not put enough excuses into
the world to meet the crimes of the world." The
words burst out of him. " And this is even worse,
because it is a crime so big that there's simply no
punishment been made to meet it. It's just
betrayal ..." And the force of that mediaeval
word, its ultimate meaning, broke him down.
Hugo Carr sobbed.
“ 0 my God, it's beastly, beastly ! Poor old
Ralph, down in that room, alone. Brfcrayed —
30
in Berkeley Square
by his best friend and his wife — and suspecting
at last that he had been betrayed, only suspecting
it — ^and not able to bear the suspicion. That's the
horrible part of it — don't you see, Joan, don't
you see ? How could he bear it — dear old Ralph,
who has never suspected any one in his life ? He
simply wasn't made that way. And so . . . Oh,
my God, while we were making love up here, we
who've quibbled for two years whether we would
hurt his feelings or not — ^his feelings ! We've killed
old Ralph . . ."
Her eyes were on hin^^ut he saw nothing but
the ruin of the ideal idea, and an odd little curve
crept about her mouth. Perhaps it was from an odd
little curve like that about theilips of a young princess
of olden time that there sprang the many tales of
young princesses who loved yet lashed their lovers.
It was not contemptuous, it was much too little
a curve for that. It was supremely dignified.
Monna Lisa has it, though some say that Monna
Lisa smiles. If Mary Stuart had seen the portrait
of Monna Lisa she would have whispered : “ She
is thinking that men are but minutes in a woman's
life, and she is right."
'' Hugo ! "
But when he looked at her it was as though he
was still looking at ruins.
" It is not fair to ns to say we've killed
him. And it's childish. Life killed him, Hugo I
And yoH are not more sorry than I — ^who have
31
When the Nightingale Sang
tried so hard for eight years to make life sweet
for him. Oh, my God, how I've tried ! "
«He thought out aloud, softly : “ You are a
marvellous woman, Joan !
“ It's only," she said gently,'*" that I know what
is worth while to me and you don't. That must
make life very difficult for you . . That is all
she said, and Hugo Carr stared at her, bewilderment
joining the fever in his eyes.
" What do yon mean, Joan ? " he asked, miserably
bewildered. Hugo Carr couldn't bear not under-
standing things.
A few yards separated them ; and Joan crossed
swiftly to him, and she took his arm and held it
very tight. Some people said that Joan’s hands
were almost too thin, but what they held they held
very tightly.
" Listen to me, Hugo — ^for if this mood of yours
isn't met now, in this horrible moment, it may
ruin our lives "
" May ruin ! " But she held his arm tight.
" Yes, dear, this is ruin — but why won't you
face facts, why won't you face the bogey that life
has shaped to frighten us, why ‘won't you see that
this is the culminating point of three ruined lives
and that on the ruins of three lives we must now
build a city for two ? It won't be a very fair
city, Hugo, but it's ours by right, by the only
real right in this wrong world — the right of
misery ..."
32
in Berkeley Square
Now the eyes of a man who sees a wraith are more
frightening than the wraith that he sees. That is
why Joan Loyalty left her sentence in the air,
for it had been snapped by his stare.
But aren’t y!Du — sorry ? ” he whispered
dryly.
And she laughed — ^her nerves laughed through
her mouth.
'' Sorry ! You dare to ask me if I am sorry !
Oh, Hugo, is it absolutely necessary for the love
of a man for a woman to be expressed in
fatuous questions ? Oh, God, what kind of thing
is this love that it tricks a mind into loving a
man ! ”
“ I don’t know what you mean . . .’’he muttered
sulkil;^. Hugo Carr couldn’t bear not understanding
things.
" You ask me if I am sorry — I, who have lived
through a hell of boredom for eight years so as not
to hurt Ralph’s feelings, not to break his heart !
And now at last it’s broken. Yes, I am sorry.
Frightfully sorry. And I am also glad — I feel as
though I myself bad died and that my soul had
been freed from a‘ long imprisonment. That is
what I felt, as though it was I who was dead, when
I saw him ”
He gaped at her idiotically.
** For Heaven’s sake don’t stare in that idiotic
way, Hugo ! I’ve already had more than I can
bear to-ifight, sitting here and thinking and thinking
33
When the Nightingale Sang
of poor Ralph downstairs and wondering what
final thought it must have been that made him do
"
Hugo Carr couldn*t understand. But when —
how ? •
Had not she warned him that she had already
had more than she could bear ? And now her
nerves rose up to meet his gaping stare.
That is why I looked so frightened when you
came in — I didn't expect you, I didn't know who
it could be, and I was afraid. And that is why I
was relieved when you said you had told Smith
to go into the study in an hour's time — ^because
that would give me time to think, to realise t!^e
thing, and to tell you. Didn't I say that I had
something important to tell you before — ^before
Ralph came in ? I was going to tell you that Ralph
would never come in, for I had seen him when I
went downstairs to fetch a book "
“ You were reading when I came in ! " he accused
her queerly.
“ Oh, dear, you are like a man out of every book
that was ever written by men ^ibout women ! I
was pretending to read. And then you told me
you had come to see Ralph on a point of honour !
At last you had summoned up your courage to
see Ralph — on a point of honour. And that's why
I wanted you to be silent for a while, for speech
sometimes makes a tragedy unbearably idiotic.
I wanted peace, Hugo ! I wanted" just to taste the
34
in Berkeley Square
peace between the old life and the new, the old
life in which there was no honour and the new life
in which there will anyway be happiness .
And she touched him, but with a blind gesture of
his arm he swept liter aside, and strode out of the
room. She stared, wide-eyed, unrealising, at the
panels of the door ; she took two quick steps
towards the door, she stopped, and then she ran
madly to it and opened it and called ** Hugo,
Hugo ! ” But, even as she cried his name, the door
below slammed massively, like a knell from the
bowels of the earth ; and through the windows of
the room behind her came the noise of swift
footsteps striding away . . .
She went back into the room. Still she could
not realise. She paced about the room, here, there,
tiying to think, trying not to think, wishing to give
way to the intolerable moment, unable to give way.
The candles danced furiously in the gentle draught,
for she had left the door wide open. She was but
a shadow among a furious company of shadows —
when, as she was by the windows, she saw one more
in the open doorway. She screamed behind her
teeth.
** I heard you call his name,'' said Ralph
Loyalty hoarsely from the door. ‘‘ Have you
quarrelled ? D’you mean to say he's gone for
good ?
He came towards her as he spoke. But this was
not the'^Ralph she knew, this was not the Ralph
35
When the Nightingale Sang
who had lived and died, this was a man with a
furious face. He advanced on her. Her knees
trAnbled, and she would have fallen but for a hand
on the back of the sofa.
'' D'you mean to say he's gone for good ? " he
repeated again furiously. She nodded dumbly.
She was going to faint.
Then Ralph Loyalty said a wicked word. " D'you
mean to say that I've been shamming dead in a
damned uncomfortable position for the last two
hours for nothing ? " he bawled at her. Here
have I been for months and months throwing you
at each other’s heads and neither of you with
the pluck to show your hand ! " And he cursed
the name of Hugo Carr for the name of a fool and
a coward. She was going to faint. He controlled
himself a little. He appealed to her. I didn't
want to hurt your feelings, you see, Joan. I knew
how you'd loved me for years, and I couldn't bear
to hurt you, but I'd have given anything to let you
see I wanted my freedom to marry some one else.
And when I saw that you liked being with Hugo
I thought there might be a chance of your liking
him instead of me, and so I did my best to throw
you together. But Hugo always was a coward —
and as I couldn't bear going on as wg> were for
another night I arranged this thing to-night, thinking
that if anything would make Hugo show his hand
or would throw you into Hugo's arms, this would."
And again he said a wicked word. " I didSi't want
36
in Berkeley Square
to hurt you, you see, Joan, and so I thought this
would be the best way — ^and now the silly ass
has gone and left us stranded ...” '
That was the night the nightingale sang in
Berkeley Square. A nightingale has never sung
in Berkeley Square before, and may never sing there
again, but if it does it whi probably mean some-
thing.
37
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
I
Out of his loneliness Aubrey Carlyle told me this
story one night : not at Malmanor Park, where,
with his sister Esther as hostess, he has entertained
us all so often, for he said that he could not have
told me this story at Malmanor, but in the libryy
of his house in London,
Aubrey Carlyle, who is a man of middle years,
had never told this story to any one before, and I
can only think he told it to me because I had been
a great friend to his wife Gloria. I have not seen
Gloria Carlyle for three years, though I have very
often wished to, for she is a lady of uncommqji »
quality and was a very loyal friend. Of her
George Tarlyon once said that she was a gentleman
among women ; ‘‘ and that is ^ very rare thing,*'
added Shelmerdene, for the only advantage most
women have over men is in the fact that they are
not gentlemen." But that is as it may be.
The last I heard of Gloria Carlyle was that she
had settled in Italy and was living in a viUa near
Florence. And I saw a vision of Gloria in a very
white villa among the myrtle and magnolia and
38
The Hunter ajter Wild Beasts
waxen camellias of that country, and walking
in lanes where green lizards moved swiftly up
gray stone walls— dear Gloria of the tiger-tawfiy
hair and the funny crooked smile like a naughty
fairy's ! She was \ very sweet and thoughtful
woman, and her voice never, never intruded, it
was like a hidden stream, quite delicious. . . .
Aubrey Carlyle told me that I could tell or write
this story as I wished, saying that it might better
the knowledge of men about their womenfolk ;
for there are too many men," he said, “ who do
not know their jobs as regards their women. And
I have learnt mine too late."
My friend Aubrey is a man of an aloof and almost
haughty demeanour, which may have perhaps
induced that rather abrupt manner that has
repelled many people from him ; for though a
certain aloofness was thought very proper to the
looks of an English gentleman of a past time,
it is now held to be quite out of place among
llie corrupt genialities of the democratic state.
A tall, dark-looking man he was, and elegant in a
tweedy sort of way. Rich always, he had never
been a wastrel, and London bored him to distraction
— or to distinction," as an American out of Texas
once said. ^ A Tory landlord of Liberal sympathies,
he was always a model administrator of his pro-
perties ; and chief among these we, their friends,
counted Gloria^ for she seemed — ^how can one
suggest "^hese shades of understanding ? — ^more
39
- The Hunter ajter Wild Beasts
particularly and peculiarly his wife than are the
wives of less fortunate men. It is said of the Carlyles
that they have always been bad to their women and
that there has been no charge on the female estate
for more than two hundred "years ; but Aubrey
and Gloria were a charming couple. It was always
quite evident that she loved him — tall Gloria of
the tiger-tawny hair and the funny crooked smile
like a naughty fairy's ; while it was equally evident
— ^to those few, of course, who could look beneath
the aloof surface of the man — that he treasured
her enormously. And then, one day, she left him ;
and she never came back. ^
Now Aubrey despised what he called the
trumpery parlour-tricks " of the countryside.
He was not civilised enough, he said. The elegant
pastime of killing a pretty fowl of the air without
any risk to yourself, or of chasing a scared fox
across a county — though that was better, for you
at least risked a broken collar-bone — did not
amuse him very much. He was a hunter after
wild beasts. And because you may not kill wild
beasts in England, for they walk on two legs and
stem laws protect them, the other four continents
knew Aubrey Carlyle for many months in the year.
And because Gloria was not a hunter -after wild
beasts she stayed in England, and was much with
us in London, and we sometimes with her at Mal-
manor. But she was an amazingly still woman.
The war came, and Aubrey was very happy at
40
The Hunter after Wild Beasts*
his pastime, legalised at last, in Flanders, and
grew to be a brigadier. And Gloria grew to be a
woman, for she had somehow seemed very yoiftig
until then. The war gasped to conclusion, and
soon Aubrey was in -South America, in the darkness
beyond the upper reaches of the Amazon. And
when, one evening, he returned to Malmanor, he
found that Gloria was gone.
II
In the vast hall-wa^y of the house, with men
tramping about the stone floor bringing in his
lug,:ra^e and his trophies, the butler very silently
gave him a slim letter. Aubrey Carlyle looked
at the handwriting on the letter, and then at the
silent servant.
“ When did my wire arrive ? ”
'' At six o'clock last night, sir."
And then Aubrey knew the letter in his hand to
hold the greatest shock of his life. But he was not
a dramatic man. He did not take his surprises
dramatically. He put the letter into his pocket.
" And iihen, Himt ? "
" Sir ? "
And then ? "
“ Madam left by the eleven o'clock London train
this moving, sir. She took luggage."
41
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
“ I wiJJ have a bath now. Very hot, tell Vesey,
Dinner at the usual time. Thank you, Hunt."
Twenty-five years had Hunt been with his master ;
ten years longer than Gloria.
Aubrey had his bath, very^^hot. And then he
put on those nice, slack, black things which so
advantage a man’s looks at night ; and with them
he always wore a soft shirt, for Aubrey would have
seen the greatest hostess in the land to blazes rather
than be uncomfortable in a stiff one. For a long time
he sat on the broad window-seat in his bedroom and
looked out on the avenue of tall trees that joined
his park to the distant shroud of Carmion Wood.
The prospect was very fair in the soft evening light.
God is like a woman in the evenings, He makes the
land look so shy. And then he heard Gloria’s Voice,
but it was very distant, for it came from across a
wide valley. He just heard Gloria’s voice, but he
could not make out what she was saying. And
he remembered sudden little phrases of hers in^
her fine, whispering voice, little broken phrases,
and how she would smile very crookedly, and how
her great eyes would queerly cloud over.
And then he read the letter. ‘It was a very short
letter.
It was after ten o’clock when he passed from the
dining-room into the drawing-room. Hunt entered
after him to draw the curtains across the French
windows, but he was told to let them be ; and
Hunt switched on the lights, but* he wa^ told to
42
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
switch them off again and that nothing more
would be required of him that night
Again Aubrey read the letter. It was a ve«y
short letter. You know why, dear. Good-bye.
Gloria.”
He was angry, because he didn't ktiow why ;
he had not the faintest idea why. But anger
is no sort of a weapon with which to fight soli-
tude, and this was the most solitary moment of
Aubrey Carlyle's life, he who had hunted wild
beasts in the loneliest places of the Americas.
He threw wide open the three French windows
and prowled about the large dim room. ” You
know why.” God in Heaven, what was she talking
about ! How could he know why ? — and what
was there to know ? He prowled about the
room. . . .
They had been good friends, amazingly good
friends. He had relied on her to understand that.
Good Lord, everything he had done to her or had
not done to her had been in friendship ! Surely
she had understood that. . . . She had seemed to.
. . . Fourteen, fifteen years. . . . Why, she couldn't
have expected him -to behave like an impassioned
lover all the time ! Fifteen years. . . . There were
moments.^. . . When he came back from any of
his travels and saw her, he loved her madly. It
was like a choke in the heart when he saw her on
his returns, that marvellous tawny Gloria with
the funny crooked smile. Oh, child, child, what
T.c.p. 43 D
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
have you done ? He had treated her like a friend.
. . . And what was the use of having a great friend
ifeyou had to write letters to her ? He never wrote
letters when he was abroad, he hated writing letters.
Of course she had understood»that. . . .
And he prowled about the large dim room, through
the clear throbbing stillness, for the face of the
moon hung over distant Carmion Wood and leered
genially into the room. He did not understand. . . .
At last he sat down in a great chair by the fire-
place, and as he sat there he thought how, after
his many returns, he had sat on that chair and
taken Gloria to his knee and loved her. And
Aubrey Carlyle cried for the first time in fds
life, . , .
in
He sat there, a very solitary man, and his eyes
wandered vaguely through the open windows
over the bewitched countryside, his gardens and
his park and his acres and his forests, shrouded all
in a clear gloom as though God \ms peering at them
in the hght of a taper. And the heavy moon climbed
the heavens. He saw the twisted shapes of tall
flowers in the garden, flowers he did not know, for
his head-gardener was a man of invention in August.
And then, among the taU shapes of the August
flowers, he saw one in particular, and this one was
the tallest among them, and it fnoved.'^ But he
44
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
sat very still and solemn in his chair, watching the
shape of the moving flower, between him and the
Heavy moon. And then it wavered and stood;
for a long time it stood, a shadow in the wan country-
side. Perhaps it wai# afraid, all alone there among
the flowers. He watched. And then it was
framed in the open window, a soft slim shadow.
But he did not move.
What sort of a play is this,*' he heard his voice
ask, in which a woman goes away like a coward
and comes back like a wraith ? "
And into the room she came, and with a sigh she
sat down in a chair by the window.
Oh, dear ! " she sighed. I am so tired. .
His heart was so tom with gladness that for a
long time he could not move, he could not speak.
And then he walked across the room and stood
above her chair. She turned up her little face
under the tiger-tawny hair and smiled her funny
crooked smile like a naughty fairy's.
“ Poor Aubrey ! " she whispered. " Poor
Gloria ! . .
But he did not «t ouch her.
Listen, Gloria,*'* he whispered. “ When I
found you had gone, my life cracked like an earthen-
ware cup # . .** And Aubrey Carlyle stopped,
amazed by what he had said ; for he had never
said a thing like that before.
And now,” he said, “ you have mended it
again.** •
45
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
** Have I ? ’* she cried queerly ; and the weight
of her eyes on him bore him to his knees by her
ckair. He had not seen her for eight months,
but still he did not touch her.
" And my life, Aubrey ? c*
But your life is mine, Gloria ! We are together!''
And Gloria, the soft, lovely Gloria smiled into his
absorbed face. . . .
" Of course," she said. " Of course I An English-
man and his wife. . . ."
But he was not listening.
“ And did you know why, Aubrey ? " she asked.
He shook his head. He had not seen her for
eight months. *
I just thought you had gone mad, Gloria.
Tell me, are you mad ? " *
“ No, dear ; I am very sane. And very tired."
And she said that in a voice which seemed to come
from the depths of a very deep bowl, the softest
voice that a man ever heard, and it broke the
poise of his restraint. He had not seen her 'for
eight months. He was very strong, and a lawless
man. He carried her away into^the depths of the
room. She said nothing.
IV
And then, again, they were by the open windows.
But a cloud with a satin fringe hid the moon, and
46
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
it was so dark that the shine of her eyes was all
he could see of her face. And Gloria was so tall
that her eyes were almost level with his. *
** And so you didn't know why, in my letter ? "
she asked miserably.^
He humoured her. . . .
Well, why ? "
You hunt wild beasts, don't you, Aubrey ? "
And I bring the skins for you to walk on,
Gloria."
“ And when you come back from your hunting,
you ravage me like a wild beast "
He cried out sharply in amazement, but she
went on, like a sibyl :
“ And then you go away again. And then again
you come back, to ravage me "
" Gloria, you are mad ! "
No, I am very sane. And very tired. I loved
you, Aubrey. I shall never love any one else. I
am clotted with your passions, Aubrey. I wanted
love, but you ravaged me like a wild beast. And
what is left of me now, I want to preserve. Oh, I
want to ! Please understand . . . just a little !
Ail last night I wondered what I would do. I
saw you coming back, my dear, the hunter
coming bick to his fireside and his wife and
his holiday — oh, yes, I am your holiday, Aubrey !
— and then I saw you going away again, leaving
me. . . . Oh, Aubrey, how you have sinned against
love 1 .^d so I went away, because of the
47
The Hunter after Wild Beasts
horror of it. And I have come back, because of
the horror of your loneliness. I, who am used to
Idneliness ! And I also came back to see if you
were— -different. . .
" If,** she whispered, we f^ere living in a past
time, I should go into a nunnery, to get assoiled.
But as it is, dear, I shall go for a walk. . . .**
** Let me come with you,** he begged humbly.
“ No, Aubrey. Td like to walk quite alone.
Towards the moon and back.** But the moon was
behind a cloud with a satin fringe.
He watched her as she walked across the garden
and was lost in darkness. He waited for a long time,
but he knew she would not return. She has never
returned.
48
The Man with the Broken Nose
I
Ever been to the National Gallery ? asked
George Tarlyon.
It was an offensive question to ask a grown man,
but I answered it.
“ Ah,'* said Tarlyon.
" I can't help thinking," said Tarlyon, " that
you ^id Madam Tussaud’s the same afternoon. . .
"If you want to know, it was the Tower,
St. Paul's, and the National Gallery that I did
on the same afternoon. My mother took me."
" Of course, I can't compete with your mother,"
said Tarlyon ; " but I will take you — ^now. Waiter
— the bill, please."
It was a day in July, and we were sitting over
luncheon at the^^af^ Royal. It was very warm
for the time of the year. I don't know if I have
mentioned it, but I am something in the City.
There wafs, if you remember, a slump in the
City in the summer of 1922. I was in that slump.
And so, what with one thing and another, I
sighed
" Come on," said Tarlyon firmly. " One must
49
The Man with the Broken Nose
not neglect axt. And two certainly mustn't/' Poor,
silly man !
•We walked from the Caf^ Royal to Trafalgar
Square, which is an untidy walk on a glaring after-
noon in July. And then wfe walked about the
Gallery ; we looked at paintings with that rapt
look which can see All Round and Into a thing ;
and we stood before Musidora Bathing her Feet."
" What a masterpiece," Tarlyon sighed, " if
only she hadn't got three legs ! " I could not at
first see Musidora's third leg, but after he had
pointed it out to me I could see nothing else but
that ghostly third leg dangling over her knee between
the other two,
" You see," he explained, " Gainsborough painted
one leg badly, and so he painted it out and ‘fitted
another — ^but Musidora's third leg came back. Say
what you like, there is something displeasing about a
woman with an exaggerated number of legs, though
some people rather like that kind of thing, saying
that a woman can't have too many. ..."
It was as we turned away, talking loftily about
legs, that we were confronted a tall and dark
young man.
" Sir," he addressed Tarlyon, " I would be obliged
if you would tell me in which gallery^ hang the
pictures by Manet ? "
One wondered why he didn't ask one of the many
uniformed men who are strewn about the Gallery
for the purpose of being asked that kind^f thing.
50
The Man with the Broken Nose
You are quite sure," Tarlyon put frankly to
him, " that you do not mean Monet ? "
Manet," said the dark stranger, and looked
as though he meant it.
Well, then, you’re in luck," said Tarlyon ;
for we, too, were just about to view the Manets.
We are partial to Manet. This way."
We followed him like lambs. Tarlyon’s knowledge
as to where the Manets were took the form of
trying every gallery in which the Manets were not.
We repassed Gainsborough’s three-legged lady,
Tarlyon commenting. The dark stranger walked
silently but firmly. He was a tall young man of
slight but powerful build ; his nose, which was of
the patrician sort, would have been shapely had
it not once been broken in such a way that for
ever after it must noticeably incline to one side ;
and, though his appearance was that of a gentleman,
he carried himself with an air of determination
and assurance which would, I thought, make any
conversation with him rather a business. There
was any amount of back-chat in his dark eyes.
His hat, which was^soft and had the elegance of
the well-worn, he wore cavalierly. Shoes by Lobb.
At last a picture rose before our eyes, a large
picture, very blue. Now who shall describe that
picture which was so blue, blue even to the grass
under the soldiers’ feet, the complexion of the
soldiers’ faces and the rifles in the soldiers’ hands ?
Over against a blue tree stood a man, and
51
The Man with the Broken Nose
miserably blue was his face, while the soldiers
stood very stiffly with their backs to us, holding
their rifles in a position which gave one no room
to doubt but that they were about to shoot the
solitary man for some misdemeanour. He was
the loneliest looking man I have ever seen.
“ Manet,*' said Tarlyon.
The dark young stranger was absorbed ; he
pulled his hat a little lower over his left eye, so that
the light should not obtrude on his vision. . . .
" Come on," I whispered to Tarlyon, for we
seemed to be intruding — ^so that I was quit® startled
when the stranger suddenly turned from the picture
to me.
" You see, sir," he said gravely, " I know all
about killing. I have killed many men. . ."
" Army Service Corps ? ** inquired Tarlyon.
" No, sir," snapped the stranger. " I know
nothing of your Corps. I am a Zeytounli."
" Please have patience with me," I begged the
stranger. " What is a Zeytounli ? "
He regarded me with those smouldering dark
eyes ; and I realised vividly that his nose had
been broken in some argument which had cost
the other man more than a broken nose.
Zeytoun," he said, " is a fortress in Armenia.
For five hundred years Zeytoun has not laid down
her arms, but now she is burnt stones on the
ground. The Zeytounlis, sir, are the hill-men of
Armenia. I am an Armenian."
52
The Man with the Broken Nose
" Oh, I'm so sorry,” Tarlyon murmured.
” Why ? ” snarled the Armenian.
WeU, you've been treated pretty badly, haven't
you ? '' said Tarlyon. All these massacres and
things. ...”
The stranger glared at him, and then he laughed
at him. I shall remember that laugh. So will
Tarlyon. Then the stranger raised a finger and,
very gently, he tapped Tarlyon's shoulder.
Listen,” said he. ” Your manner of speaking
bores me. Turks have slain many Armenians.
Wherefore Armenians have slain many Turks.
You may take it from me that, by sticking to it
year in and year out for five hundred years,
Armenians have in a tactful way slain more Turks
thaii Vurks have slain Armenians. That is why I
am proud of being Armenian. And you would
oblige me, gentlemen, by informing your country-
men that we have no use for their discarded trousers,
which are anyway not so good in quality as they
were, but would be grateful for some guns. And
you would still further oblige me by trying, in
future, not tO/*4alk nonsense about Armenians.
Adieu, gentlemen. You will probably hear of me
again. I am in England on public business.”
He left ^s.
” I didn't know,” I murmured, ” that Armenians
were like that. I have been misled about Armenians.
And he speaks English very well. . . .”
” Hum7* said Tarlyon thoughtfully. ” But no
53
The Man with the Broken Nose
one would say he was Armenian if he wasn't, would
he? "
‘ Also,” said I, ” he is the most aggressive young
man I have ever met. Manet indeed ! ”
” So would you be aggressive, if you had been
massacred and made an atrocity of ever since you
were a slip of a boy, and had spent your holidays
being chased round Lake Van by roaring Turks
and hairy Kurds with scimitars dripping with the
blood of Circassian children.”
” Oh, not Circassian ! ” I pleaded, for I have
always been very sentimental about Circassian
woman ; but Tarlyon insisted that they gener^ly
died young and that they were a fat race. . . .
II
This is what actually happened, towards mid-
night of that very day, within a stone's-throw of
Claridge's Hotel, in Brook Street, Mayfair. George
Tarlyon and I had been of the same company
for dinner and then bridge at af»^4;;^ouse in Brook
Street. Towards midnight a gap in the bridge
allowed us to slip away, which we did.. Tarlyon
had parked his car outside Claridge's, and thither
we walked.
Now Brook Street at that hour is undecided
between a state of coma and pne of glittering
abandon ; which means that the deatlily silence
54
The Man with the Broken Nose
is every now and then shattered by rich automobiles
hurling themselves and lovely ladies all covered
in pearls and chrysoprase into the bosom 5f
Grosvenor Square. Claridge's, of course, hath
music, so that youth ifiay dance. But of pedestrians
along Brook Street there are less than a few . . .
and of young men in gents' evening wear running
furiously after limousines there is a noticeable
scarcity. He simply tore past us, that young man,
in the middle of the road, a few yards behind a
swiftly-going car. The car stopped towards
Grosvenor Square, and somehow the young man
seemed to disappear. We were more than fifty
yards away, and could not determine whether it
v/as a man or a woman who emerged from the car
and ^^^rltered the house, but it looked like a fat little
man. Then the car slid away. The pursuing young
man had disappeared.
" He can’t have been doing it for fun,” said
Tarlyon.
” Perhaps he’s, gone to have a bath,” I sug-
gested. For it was a very warm night, and
running after nxQ^or-cars must have been a wet
business.
We’ll see,” said Tarlyon. We retraced our
steps up Brook Street, and passed the house into
which the occupant of the car had disappeared.
It was a house like another, dark and silent ; and
as it stood almost at the corner we went round
the comef" into drosvenor Square ; at least, we
55
The Man with the Broken Nose
were rounding the comer when a young man in a
great hurry collided into us.
Ah ! said Tarlyon.
Sorry/* said the stranger. I was right about
the running — it had made his i'ace very wet.
So it’s you ! ** said Tarlyon.
Good-evening, gentlemen,*' said the Armenian,
with a sort of furious courtesy. '' If you will
excuse me, I am in a hurry.** He made to pass us.
*‘We noticed it,*' said Tarlyon. ‘‘In fact, we
noticed notliing else.**
“ Damn ! ** snapped the Armenian. “ So you
saw me running ? **
“ So did he,*' I murmured, looking up Brook
Street. A policeman was sauntering towards us.
“ If you don't want to be asked any questions
by the arm of the law," Tarlyon suggested, " you
had better take a turn round the square with us."
‘‘ I won't move," the stranger muttered passion-
ately. ‘‘ I have found him at last — I won’t move."
‘‘ But neither will he," I soothed him. " He's
gone into the house. ..."
‘‘ Did you see him go in ? "
We nodded.
" Ah, but His Excellency is clever !. " said the
Armenian viciously. '
We grabbed hold of him and hauled him round
the square.
" Now," said Tarlyon, ‘‘ what's all this Excellency
nonsense ? " ^
56
The Man with the Broken Nose
** He doesn’t think it*s nonsense/’ the young man
muttered grimly.
Look here,” I said, ” either this is a plot oi^
it is not a plot. In either case you'll look rather an
idiot, so ”
” You’d better confide in us,” Tarlyon finished.
” We, being English, have great sympathy with
oppressed peoples ”
“ I have noticed it,” said the Armenian grimly.
He was obviously a well-educated young man.
We had him walking between us, and he never
even pretended that he liked our company.
” I suppose,” said Tarlyon cattishly, ” you’ve
got bombs all over you.”
” Sir ! ” snapped the Armenian.
” Sif to you,” said Tarlyon.
” I was merely going to say,” said the Armenian,
” that in my opinion you are a fool. Do I look the
kind of man to carry bombs ? I favour the revolver.’
“ Oh, do you ? ” said I. Sarcastic I was, you
understand.
He looked at me wkh those large, devilish
ev es.
“And one sHbt,” 'he said gently, “is always
enough. . ...”
I gave up.
“ And where,” asked Tarlyon reasonably, “ does
His Excellency come in } ”
" He won’t come in an5rwhere after to-night.
His Excelxchcy is* going to die.” And with that
57
The Man with the Broken Nose
the Armenian suddenly stopped in his unwilling
stride, and looked from one to the other of us.
His broken nose made fantasy of his dark face,
but I remember thinking that it must once have been
a handsome enough face of fits kind, for not even
a broken nose made him quite ugly. He was as
tall as Tarlyon, but slighter ; his was a dangerous
thinness. He addressed Tarlyon. He did not seem
to have a very high opinion of me.
" Sir," he said— an Armenian habit, I suppose,
that " sir " — " you have intruded your company
on me, but I have accepted you. I have trusted
you. I have treated you as gentlemen, being by
nature an optimist, and I take it for granted fhat
you will neither betray me nor try to deter me.
You will understand the vigour of my purpose
when I say that a young girl is concerned in this,
that I have sworn a vow, and that if you were in
my position you would do what I am going to do.
Good-night, gentlemen. I hope we will meet again
when I am less occupied with more important
business."
" Hold on," cried Tarlyon. What on earth
were you chasing that car for ? And who the devil
is His Excellency ? We'd like to know, you see,
so as to be able to pick him out fronr among the
other murders in to-morrow's papers."
" Achmed Jzzit Pasha, the Young Turk," said
the Armenian softly.
" Ah ! " said George Tarlyon. " I Enver
58
The Man with the Broken Nose
Pasha, Djemal Pasha, Talaat Pasha, and Achmed
Jzzit Pasha, of the Committee of Union ard Pro-
gress. I see. Talaat Pasha has already been killed,
hasn’t he ? ”
Four of us,” said the Armenian sombrely,
set out from Armenia last year, and each of us
had a mission of revenge. One of us — ^you will
remember ? — shot and killed Talaat Pasha in a
street in Berlin some months ago. Djemal Pasha
was lately slain in Syria. Enver Pasha has fled to
Bokhara. A murder has been arranged, and will
shortly take place in Bokhara. And I, the fourth,
have at last found Achmed Jzzit, the foulest
murderer of all. There is not an Armenian in the
world who would not shoot Achmed Jzzit Pasha
on sight if he had the chance — ^but Armenians who
come to Western countries only too soon acquire
nasty Western habits of money-grubbing and
forget the glory there is in killing. But I, a Zey-
tounli, have never forgotten it. . . .”
'‘You speak English very well," I remarked.
” Were you educated at aii English public-school ? ”
" That, sir, is a matter of opinion. But even an
English public-'Schooi could not make me forget
that I am^n Armenian, and that an Armenian’s
first business is to kill Turks ; failing Turks, he
may, of course, kill Kurds or ravish Circassian
maidens "
” Oh, not Circassians ! ” I pleaded.
” Well, ^banian,” he allowed. During the
T.C.P. 59 E
The Man with the Broken Nose
wax I fought through the siege of Zeytoun, and
then as an irregular under Andranik ; and since
the war I have pursued Achmed Jzzit Pasha—
and to-night I have found him ! He has been
here in London for some months, but under an
assumed name, for he knows that he is marked by
the Dashnakists ' and the Henchakists,^ and he
is afraid. It is my present business to cure him of
his fear for ever/' And with a wrench his arms
were free of our gently restraining hands and he
was off down the square. But Tarlyon was swift,
very swift ; I panted up just as he was again
“ intruding himself " on the Armenian.
You don't seem to realise," breathed Tarlyon,
“ that you can't enter a house in Brook Street,
kill a Pasha, and get away " »
I don't care if I get away or not," the other
broke in fiercely. ‘‘ Besides, my friend who killed
Talaat in Berlin was acquitted. And I cannot
believe that your English juries are as thick-
headed as you would have me think. So will you
please excuse me, sir ? "
It was marvellous what vengm that broken-
nosed young man could put into a shnple question !
I've taken rather a fancy to you,"| murmured
Tarlyon, and I hate to think of your going off
murdering Pashas. Come and have a drink instead,
there's a good fellow."
“ If I tell you," snapped the Armenian, “ that
‘Armenian Revolutionary Societies.'*'^
6o
The Man with the Broken Nose
there is a girl in that house, and that I must rescue
that girl, then you will perhaps see your way to
minding your own business/' ^
Has the Pasha got your girl ? " I asked kindly.
" She is my siste-, O fool/' he said wearily.
** And do you think I can allow my little sister to
stay in that loathsome old creature's house one
night more than I can help ? "
“ Collar him/' said Tarlyon to me ; and I grabbed
the young man's other arm, though I didn't in
the least want to, and again we began hauling him
round the square. As I walked close to him I could
feel a solid bulky thing in his hip-pocket, and I did
not like the feeling.
** Now," said Tarlyon, very business-like, " what's
all this about your sister ? "
The Armenian almost screamed with impatience,
" Have I not told you all along that if you were
in my position you would do exactly what I am
going to do ? Must I explain to you that my little
sister was carried away by that old lecher before
my eyes ? Must I tell you how Zeytoun on the
hill was at last shelled to dust by the batteries of
two Army Corpus’ under Achmed Jzzit Pasha, and
how the Tu^s entered the smoking town and gave
no quarter ^ to man, woman or child ? Must I,
just to satisfy your wanton and asinine curiosity,
ravage my heart with retailing how my father
and mother were bayoneted before my eyes, and
how I escaped only because those Turkish swine
6i
The Man with the Broken Nose
thought me already dead ? Must I tell you how
my little sister was carried away to the harem
of Achmed Jzzit Pasha, who, on beholding her,
swore a mighty swear that he would not rest from
disembowelling Christians ui^til he had ravished
her ? Did she give way ? The slaying went on,
day by day and night by night, so that a count of
the leaves of the trees in your puny but not un-
attractive Green Park would make but a fraction of
the number of the dead bodies that to this day lie
rotting in the plain of Mush. An expert killer was
Achmed Jzzit Pasha ; and whether or not the natural
blood-lust of the illiterate Osmanli was heightened
by his oath to ravish my sister I do not know, t>ut
I do know that there has not been such a tale of
dead Christians since Timur passed through the
land to meet Bajazet. And that is the man who
holds my sister in that house, while you detain me
here with the vain questions and idiotic comments
peculiar to the high-minded people of your patrician
land. I followed him to Paris, but he escaped me.
I found him in Bournemouth, but again 1 with-
held my hand while I planned some way of rescuing
Anais — fool that I was ! But* the*!itiea in my head
was that I must first get the girl to i some place
of safety — and then to come back, slay him, and
pay whatever is the penalty in your country for
killing a loathsome animal. But now I have realised
that there is no other way of rescuing Anais but by
killing him first. Always, wherever fee goes, he
62
The Man with the Broken Nose
keeps her locked in a room next to his, and thus it
must be in this house. Bestial fancies seethe in
his brain, wherefore he sleeps lightly. And whiie
the night is dwindling, here I stand satisfying your
idle curiosity. You 'really must excuse me now,
gentlemen.”
“ But hold on ! ” cried Tarlyon. “ Why kill the
wretched man at all ? Why not rescue your sister
with the charming name and let the Pasha go on
being a Pasha until he dies a horrible death by
reason of those bestial fancies which you mentioned ?
He won’t dare come after her — and I don’t see
much point in getting your sister back if you have
got to swing for it more or less at once. Eh,
Ralph ? ”
‘ ^uite right,” said I. “ Come and have a drink
instead.”
‘‘This is no time for drink,” snapped the Armenian.
‘‘ The night is dwindling — ^and how can I desist
from killing him when, as I have told you, I cannot
get into her room without awaking him ? And it
stands to reason that as soon as I see him I shall
also see red, anijUkill — as I must, by reason of my
vow and by orcler of the Dashnakists. As I have
told you, ^ would have preferred to have got
Anars out of the house first, but that seems
impossible. . . .”
Tarlyon opened his mouth, and closed it. I
knew what was passing in Tarlyon’s mind, and I
thought I would let it pass, so that he might think
63
The Ma?i with the Broken Nose
again. But then he re-opened his mouth, and this
is what he said:
“ My friend and I,** he said, “might perhaps
consider giving you a little assistance, if in return
you gave us a promise
“ I promise nothing ! “
“Drat the boy ! “ said Tarlyon. “ Wliat I wish
to point out is that, if my friend and I help you to
get your sister out of that house, you must drop
this killing business. We will contrive some way
of keeping His Excellency quiet while you rescue
your sister — ^but you must give us your word of
honour, or some efficient substitute, that you will
not come back and murder the wretched Pas&a.
Now, I want no back-chat about it — either you
will or you will not.“
“ But I am bound to the Dashnakists ! cried
the Armenian ; rather regretfully, I thought.
“ Blast the Dashnakists ! “ said Tarlyon. “ Yes
or no ?
“ I promise," said the Armenian suddenly.
My native common sense now got the better of
me.
“ You seem to take it for granted t,hat we just
walk into the house. How do we get ii^? "
“ This cuts windows like a knife," said the
Armenian, showing us in the palm of his hand a
glittering little thing like a toy dagger. “ An
Argentine invention."
“ The matter will be further facilitated," said
64
The Man with the Broken Nose
Tarlyon, ‘‘ by our first getting my car, which is
opposite Claridge's, and driving in it to the front
door. My reason for this step is that no policfe-
man wotdd dare suspect anything wrong in a
house while a Rolls-^ioyce is standing outside it.
Especially, Ralph, when your manly appearance
is decorating the driving-seat. . . **
“ I shall be in the house,'* I said firmly. Not
that I wanted to be — ^but one always says those
things, and one always says them firmly.
Perhaps that would be better," said the
Armenian. " It will certainly take the two of you
to keep His Excellency quiet while I break in the
first locked door I see and get Anais. And a Rolls-
Royce car is, I understand, even more impressive
empty than when some one is in it — ^people make
it seem possible."
Ill
We got the car and drove bravely to the house.
We passed two policemen at the comer of Davies
Street, but they were not interested in us. I must
say burgl^y'^is easy when one has a large and
rich car tcrdo it from.
Like all Mayfair houses, this had a tradesmen's
entrance ; through a little gate, on the right of the
few steps to the front door, down some steps, and
into a httle area where was the kitchen door and
a windowT
65
The Man with the Broken Nose
" Wait in the car/' said the dark young man,
and vanished down to the area. We heard a very
faSint scratching, one little wicked word, a little
more scratching ; and then the lights blazed up
through the glass above the ffont door, and it was
opened. The Armenian stood in the lighted door-
way as though he owned the house. I admired
him.
Tarlyon's first words when we were in the hall
of the house were : ‘‘ Give me your gun, you
charming atrocity."
The Armenian surrendered his revolver without
a word ; he only sighed. Then he marshalled us.
" Very quiet," he whispered. " And very quick.
We must try the upstairs rooms, to see which is his
bedroom. One touch on the door will wake* him,
so you must muffle him at once, else he will rouse
the servants. In the meanwhile I will find my
sister ; then I will take her straight out of the
house, and we will await you in the car. I will
blow your horn twice, to show that I am awaiting
you. It will be kind of you, then, to drive us to
Mr. Ritz's hotel in Piccadilly, where, perhaps,
with your influence, we may ge*t my Iteter a lodging
for the night. But, remember, keep a\tight hold
on Achmed Jzzit until I blow the horn — muffle
him straightway and let him not open his mouth,
else he will bring the whole neighbourhood down
on us. Let uS begin."
We began with a bit of luck— or so "it seemed
66
The Man with the Broken Nose
Having tiptoed up to the first landing, the very
first door we touched held the lightly-sleepin|;
Pasha. We knew he was there by the howl that
followed our touching the door-knob — ^indeed, he
was a light sleeper, that man of bestial fancies 1
But we gave him no time to make a real noise ;
we leapt into the room ; I switched on the light,
Taiiyon leapt on bed and Pasha, I leapt after
Tarlyon, and in a second we held him, making
smothered howling noises under the bedclothes.
We had not even had time to see if he was young
or old, but the shape of him suggested that he was
older than most people. His was, however, an active
and restless shape. We were very gentle with him,
almost too gentle, for once a distinct howl issued
from somewhere under the sheets.
Steady,'' said George Tarlyon to the restless
shape.
'' You'll throttle yourself," said George Tarlyon.
To prevent him from doing that we, with a sudden
and well-concerted movement, unscrewed his head
and muffled him with a handkerchief. We looked
upon his face for the first time.
You're a nasty, cruel old man," said George
larlyon. '
Achmed Jzzit Pasha looked all that the Armenian
had said he was, and more. A fierce old face it
was that looked murder at us. His eyes, under
white, bushy eyebrows, were frantic and furious,
and never for a second did he cease to struggle. I
67
The Man with the Broken Nose
thought of that fine old Turkish warrior of the
last century, the man of Plevna, Osman Pasha ;
this old man is of the same breed, I thought.
We had so far heard nothing of the Armenian ;
but that Achmed Jzzit Pasha realised that we two
were only accessories was evident, for not even his
struggling with us concealed the fact that he was
listening, listening intently.
A slight noise, as of a drawer hastily banged,
came from the next room. It was only a small
noise, but it had a mighty effect on the old slayer
of men. His eyes simply tore at us, his fat little
body heaved frantically, he bit my finger in trying
to howl — ^he went quite mad, that violent old Turk.
I admonished him severely :
“ It's only little Anais packing up to go away
with her brother," I told him ; but that old Turk
knew not resignation nor repentance, and still we
had gently to battle with him.
" He's an infernally long time about it," grumbled
Tarlyon at last — ^and at that very moment the hom
outside blew twice. We welcomed it.
" Now," said Tarlyon to the having old man,
" we are about to release you. ^Y^ur girl has
flown, so it's too late for you to make a noise.
So don't." And for form's sake he showed the
revolver, though I never saw a man who looked
less likely to use it. " You may not realise it," he
added severely, " but we hav§ saved your life.
After the first shock has worn off you will thank
68
The Man with the Broken Nose
two disinterested men for having saved you from
the wrath of an Armenian.” ^
With another sudden and well-concerted move-
ment we let go. The Pasha did not make a noise.
It was evident he realised that it was too late to
make a noise. But in the next few seconds he
revealed, for a Turk, an astonishing knowledge of
the baser words and idioms of the English language.
Then he leapt out of bed, a funny little creature
in pink flannel pyjamas, and rushed out of the
room. Breathless, we found him in the next room.
Now I have very little acquaintance with girls'
bedrooms, but a glance was sufficient to show me
that no girl alive could have a bedroom like that.
There was no bed in it, and very little else ; just
a thing like a tallboy, but made of steel, or so it
looked : and that, if I may say so, had certainly
been ravished. . , .
Then the old man really began to howl, and we
hadn't the heart to stop him. He how’^led himself
back to the bedroom, and we followed him, looking
and feeling like all the things he said we were.
“ But aren't you Achmed Jzzit Pasha ? ” I
pleaded. Bj^t^the life had suddenly gone out of
him ; he sat on the edge of the bed.
My name is Wagstaffe,” he said weakly, ” and
I have the finest collection of Roman coins in the
country. Or rather, I had. My son, Michael
Wagstaffe, has them now — ^thanks to you two
idiots 1 ” ^
69
The Man with the Broken Nose
Tarlyon had an idea which took him to the
window ; I had the same idea, and followed him.
We looked down upon the face of Brook Street,
and behold ! it was empty. Never was a Rolls-
Royce car with lamps alight ^o invisible. We went
back to Mr. Wagstaffe on the edge of the bed.
“We are sorry,” I muttered, but he seemed not
to hear us. George Tarlyon is usually a fine up-
standing fellow, and some people have thought him
handsome, but now he looked as though he had
seen horrid spectres after dining entirely on pdti
de foie gras.
Mr. Wagstaffe was whispering, almost to himself :
“ Two years ago, when I drove him out of the
house, he swore that one day he would steal my
coins. And now he has stolen my coins. I always
knew he would keep his word, for he is a devil.
And he always knew that, come what might, I
would not prosecute my son for a thief . . . My
Roman coins ! ” And Mr. Wagstaffe wept.
We explained our position to him. We gave
him a brief outline of the facts. We begged him
to understand. We pointed out that if his son
really had been an Armenian and ^^‘he had really
been Achmed Jzzit Pasha we had undoubtedly
saved his life. I couldn't help thinking that he
ought to be grateful to us, but I didn't say that.
He seemed to find a little solace in our dis-
comfiture.
“ Ah, he's a clever boy, Michael,'' sighed Mr.
70
The Man with the Broken Nose
Wagstaffe. “He is always on the look-out for
what he calls the Mugs. I gather that you two
gentlemen are Mugs — ^the same, perhaps, as what^
are known in America as Guys. But I, his father,
can assure you that h® is not an Armenian ; nor
has he ever been nearer to Armenia than the
Bankruptcy Court, but he has been there twice.
He calls himself the cavalier of the streets, but
when he is up to any of his tricks he disguises himself
as an Armenian — ^the disguise consisting merely of
his saying he is an Armenian. It’s so simple, he
says, for the Mugs believe him at once, on the
ground that no one would say he was an Armenian
if he wasn’t. I have only been back from America
a week, and he must have been searching all London
for me* He probably saw me at the theatre this
evening, and was going to raid my house alone when
you two intelligent gentlemen got in his way. But
he is not a bad boy really — ^he’s got ideas, that’s
what it is ; and also Mugs have an irresistible
fascination for him. Take your case, for instance.
I have no doubt but that he will be ready to
ret am me my coins in exchange for a cheque —
though, of cowse, that depends on the cheque.
And I can see, gentlemen, that you are eager to
show your regret for breaking into my house and
assaulting my person by offering to pay the cheque
yourselves. I thank you ; though, indeed, it is
the least you can^ do, and an infinitely more con-
venient way*=of settling the matter than wearisome
71
The Man with the Broken Nose
arguments in a police-court — ^provided, of course,
that housebreaking and assault are matters for
^gument. I have never yet heard they
were. . .
I giggled. I simply coulcki't help it.
That's all very well," said Tarlyon, " but what
about my car ? ”
** What is the matter with your car ? " asked Mr.
Wagstaffe gently.
" There's so damn little the matter with it,"
snapped Tarlyon, " that it's probably half-way
down the Dover road by now."
Ah,'* said Mr. Wagstaffe wearily. " I see.
Cars have an irresistible fascination for Michael.
I see. I am sorry. Was it a good car ? "
" Pity," said Mr. Wagstaffe. " A great pity.
He may, of course, return it. He may. You cannot,
of course, compel him to, for it would be difficult
for you, in your position, to put the police on him.
But he may return it on his own. Michael is not
a bad boy, really. He will, I am sure, communicate
with me as to what I will offer for the return of my
coins. I will then give him the cheque you have
so kindly promised to post' to me^^-night, and
perhaps he will soften also as regards your car and
return it to you. Naturally, he will expect your
cheque to approximate to the value of your car —
say, half its value. Michael is something of an
expert about the value of cars. That's why I said
it was a pity, sir, a pity that your c^l was not a
72
The Man with the Broken Nose
cheap car. But I am sure you will have no difficulty
in finding a taxi-cab home. They are so abundant
ia Grosvenor Square that my sleep is often dis-’
turbed by them. . . .”
The rest of the stoiry is not at all interesting.
George Tarlyon’s car was finally returned, and
George Tarlyon is sorry that Mr. Michael WagstafEe’s
nose is already broken.
73
The Luck of Captain Fortune
Now it happened that one night, not long ago, Shel-
merdene, having nothing better to do, rang me up
and, complaining thus and thus, suggested that I
should do the manly thing and dine with her. It was
such a rare happening that I remember it all vividly.
I remember I adopted an offended attitude, asking
her if she thought I was the kind of man who was
so lacking in dinner engagements that I coulcf be
rung up to take a lady out to dinner at the last
moment. I asked her who she thought I was. I
asked her to dine at the Ritz. But then, after a
certain amount of talk this way and that way,
we decided that we would be frightfully gay, and
so we went to dine at the Ambassadors.
Of course, you know the Ambassadors. Every
one knows the Ambassadors. Every one has passed
through its mean but patrician-looking entrance
in Bond Street, just between a jeweller’s and a
j&shmonger’s. It is, of course, a Nightclub, though
there is nothing to prevent you going there in
the afternoon if you feel that way. It is an
exclusive Night-Club. Outside it are posted tall
men in brilliant uniforms adorned with medals,
and these men have the eyes of hawks^^or it is their
74
The Luck of Captain Fortune
business to sift out the low and vulgar from the
fashionable crowds that perpetually strive for
admittance ; they are the best sifters of their kind /
and on any night of the week you will see at the
Ambassadors all the q€ality and only the quality,
toying with their food and calling each other by
their Christian names.
The tables are elegantly arranged around the
walls, deep sofas and divans are luxuriously set
about them, while the centre is left unchallenged
to the shimmering parquet floor. Of course all
parquet floors shimmer, but none shimmers like this
at the Ambassadors. One dines. One sups. Tommy
Tittlebat's Saxophone Six plays. The quality dance.
The more Tommy Tittlebat's Saxophone Six plays
the mofe the quality dance, which is only reasonable.
They jump up to dance at the exact moment when
their food is put upon the table, and they cease
dancing only when their food has become so cold
that they have to hold lighted matches under the
plates to warm them up. This causes much laughter.
As evening melts exquisitely into night, the
quality enter the Ambassadors in their hundreds,
all calling e^eh other and the waiters by their
Christian names. Some bring well-dressed nobodies
with them, some bring Jews, some bring titled
w^hat-nots from the provinces or from Labrador : so
that by midnight the parquet fibor is so crowded
that you cannot see the parquet. Then it is great
fun to dance.*
T.C.P.
75
F
The Luck of Captain Fortune
Xhe game is played like this. As soon as a man
and woman, sitting at their table, see a clear square
4oot of parquet floor they instantly leap on same,
and, passionately embracing each other thereon,
make movements of them eyebrows, hips, and
feet in time to Tommy Tittlebat's Saxophone Six.
That is called dancing. They stay on their
square foot of shimmering parquet floor until they
get shoved off it by a beefier couple, whereupon
the two gentlemen compliment each other in an
elegant way — as is the way with persons of
ton — or they call each other names (not Christian
names) — as is also the way with persons of ton —
until one or other of them is thrown out. That
is called enjoying yourself, and you have to pay
to do it. I paid, on the night I am telling you
about. But not even Tommy Tittlebat's Saxo-
phone Six could drown the charm of Shelmerdene.
Dear Shelmerdene. . . .
At the table next to us sat a solitary gentleman.
Obviously, we thought, he is waiting for some one,
and obviously that some one has let him down.
I am not much of a connoisseur as to men's looks,
but Shelmerdene knows about the^ things, and
she said he was handsome. He was, even as he sat,
noticeably tall ; of strong and manly appearance ;
and, though swarthy in countenance, so essentially
English-looking that it was with a disagreeable
shock that, towards midnight, we noticed that his
dark eyes were wet with tears. Therens, as a rule,
76
The Luck of Captain Fortune
a scarcity of six-foot men weeping over supper
at the Ambassadors.
Drunk/' I suggested harshly, but Shelmerdene
is a kind woman and she said that he looked like
a man haunted by a ^eat calamity.
“ That's all very well," I said, but one doesn't
cry about things." Whereupon Shelmerdene looked
at me, those wide and wise and witty eyes looked
full at me — men have drowned themselves in
Shelmerdene's eyes — and I saw laughter at all men
playing in their dusky-blue depths ; and I had to
confess to those kind, mocking eyes, that I, Ralph
Wyndham Trevor, had also M^ept, that I had sobbed
like a child, and that a woman had seen me at it —
the woman who had caused it.
Exactly," said Shelmerdene. “ For the more
virile a man is, the braver and the more adventurous
a man is, the more likely he is to weep before a
woman and generally make a fool of himself. Fetch
me that handsome man, Ralph. Men in love are
not generally very reticent, especially Englishmen
in love. The reticence of Englishmen is as much
an illusion as the good manners of Frenchmen.
I am curious>^ Fetch me that handsome man,
Ralph."
I leant over to the table beside us. The tall,
dark young man turned moist, absent-minded
eyes upon me.
' Sir," I said, " forgive this unpardonable in-
trusion. But my companion and I have observed
77
The Luck of Captain Fortune
your solitude, no doubt temporary, and would be
delighted if you would join us in a glass of wine/'
^ ‘‘ You are very kind," said the tall, dark young
man.
He refused, with a courtly gesture, to take my
seat on the sofa beside Shelmerdene, but sat on a
chair opposite us. I filled him a glass of champagne.
" Sir," said he, " your health. And yours,
madam."
But still the tears did not leave those dark,
tragic eyes, they smouldered darkly in them. He
looked infinitely wretched, though he bravely tried
to smile as he addressed Shelmerdene :
" You must not think me unamiable if I do* not ’
ask you to dance, but I am not, to-night, in my
happiest vein. You must forgive me. . . T*
He looked so very miserable that I was about to
say something sympathetic when Shelmerdene
kicked me under the table. She murmured sopie-
thing gentle across the table . . .
"You are so kind and sympathetic," whispered
the handsome stranger, " that I will tell you a story.
You are sure it won't bore you ? "
We said we were quite sUre, and%{ filled him a
glass of champagne.
" Sir," said he, " your health. And yours,
madam."
" My story," he addressed us, " concerns a man
and a woman. The man loved the woman. I call
her a woman because all words* are' l:^ain, and to
78
The Luck of Captain Fortune
call her a goddess were but to lay myself under the
charge of affectation. But if I were to tell you her^
name, which of course I cannot do, except to say
that it rhymes with custard, you would instantly
agree with the most abandoned epithets for her
beauty ; for she is one of the best loved ladies
in the land, by reason of her high birth, her peerless
carriage, and her amazing loveliness. I tell you,
she has no rival in the present, nor can history
tell us of her like. If the Lady Circe had had
golden hair, which I much doubt, perhaps she may
have been a tithe as lovely. It is, as you know,
said of the Lady Circe that she turned men into
swine, but this lady turns swine into men, and
what could be more agreeable than that ? It was
ever her innocent delight to improve the men she
met ; and, with such beauty, was there anything she
could not do with men ? Her beauty appals the
epithet. She is divinely tall, gold is but brass
beside the sheen of her hair, and white samite is
gray beside her complexion. She is without doubt
the loveliest woman in England — ^which, of course,
also includes America, for all lovely American
women live ia England even though they may
die in Paris.
“ The man met this lady, and instantly loved her.
Now his was no casual passion. She was young,
but the war had already widowed her ; and she
seemed not unaware of, nor entirely repelled by, her
new suitor's passion, for from her many suitors she
79
The Luck of Captain Fortune
chose him as her constant companion. Thus,
rumour very soon came to link their names ; and
rumour, generally so malignant, was then kind
enough to find something harmonious in the alliance
of that pair. For he was a man of unusual height,
of a good name, a distinguished military record, and
looks which some have thought handsome while
none have denied to be very properly suited to
the requirements of an English gentleman.
‘‘ She did not, at first, wholly accept him. But
no day passed that they did not meet ; and, as
day exquisitely strung itself to day so that each
was another pearl on the necklace of an Olympian
goddess, she seemed, by sudden gestures, by sudden
impulses, to be growing to love him — she the
loveliest lady in the world ! And he was happy —
Oh, God, he was happy ! "
The handsome stranger fell silent, and I thought
he was about to break down. I filled him a glass
of champagne.
Sir,” said he, “ your health. And yours,
madam.”
I have told you,” he went on, “ of her amazing
beauty, the golden-white beauty of the world’s
last aristocracy. But, as though that were not
enough, she was ambitious; she was a lady of
parts, and she increasingly sought the company of
those with whom she could discuss, deeply and
seriously, the current problems pf th^ vexed time.
She was, you understand, tremendously interested
8o
The Luck of Captain Fortune
in improving people ; and politically she was,
of course, a Die-Hard ; for, as the daughter of ^
great house, her earliest experiences in literature
was The Morning Toast, to which she had remained
faithful even when Shi grew up, with that tenacity
peculiar to all readers of that remarkable journal.
And so, when the franchise was extended to women,
she, even before Lady Astor, raised the standard
of rampant womanhood ; and the world was
given the rare sensation of seeing, and the House
of Commons the rare privilege of welcoming, among
its foremost legislators, the loveliest lady in the
land, or any land. Words cannot describe the
effect she made as she stood, indisputably the first
of the twelve other ladies who had won their right
of entrance into the Lower House, in all her glorious
height and golden beauty among the dolorous
decorations of that crypt which the glamour of
centuries has raised to the majesty of Britain's
greatest institution.
“ It was at this time that the man I have referred
to came into her life ; and it chanced for her to be
a fortunate occasion, for without him her political
career had been a barren thing. She could not
make up a speech. Memorise and speak a speech
she could, so amazingly well that the populace
cried out with wonder at one so gifted with brains
and elocution as well as with beauty — ^but she
could not mak^ up a speech. The brains in her
speeches, which were rapidly winning for her a
8i
The Luck of Captain Fortune
foremost position among the Die-Hards, were not
hers. Her friend wrote her speeches for her. He
did them gladly, happy and honoured to be of use
to her. He ‘ helped ’ her with her speeches, so
that she seemed not to be aware that his was
every idea, every phrase, every epigram, everything
— and that was his greatest pleasure, his subtle
‘ helping ’ her to a place of honour and esteem
for something besides her beauty. Himself, though
a gentleman, was not a Die-Hard ; he was a man
of ideas. He had a brain like Clapham Junction,
going this way and that way and every way at the
same time ; and he could, no doubt, have mad^ a
great political name for himself, but he was by
nature a soldier and by temperament adventurous,
so that it pleased him infinitely more to ‘‘help’
the lady of his dreams to political fame rather than
to bid for it in his own person.
“ But another soldier came into her life — ^the
most fearless soldier of our time, it has been said.
But whether it was that he was the most fearless
or the luckiest, we cannot tell. He himself insists
on his luck. " I cannot lose,” he is reported to
have often said, sometimes unhappily. Whatever
he touched became a jewel in his hand : whatever
he ventured, he won. A name never expressed a
man more perfectly — ^Victor Fortune ! Captain
Fortime, V.C., D.S.O., M.C., etc. . . .
" He saw her first from the Strangers’ Gallery
in the Lower House. He was, of course, familiar
82
The Luck of Captain Fortune
with her beauty — ^how often had he not seen por-
traits of her in the fashionable journals of the day^i
— ^but her face had hitherto failed to attract him,
because of a certain ^^oldness, a certain vapidity,
which only his fastidious taste has chosen to dis-
cover in it. But those were photographs — ^now,
from his obscure seat in the Gallery, Captain
Fortune looked down upon the fairest figure the
mind of man could conceive.
It was the afternoon set apart for the discussion
on Fabric Gloves, and the loveliest woman of
our time excelled herself in her speech : or, rather,
her friend had excelled himself. Captain Fortune,
gazing down upon that tall and golden figure, a
light in that dark pit of legislation, was enthralled
and — yes, appalled by her beauty and her wit.
It had needed only her wit, her culture, to add that
vivacity to her perfect features which would enslave
Captain Fortune’s fastidious heart — Victor Fortune,
who never ventured but he won ! He met the
lady that night, at Lady Savoury's ball in aid of
the Bus-Conductors’ Orphanage.
Three weeks later her old friend, her * helper,'
was stunned to read in The Morning Toast of the
engagement of the lady to Captain Fortune, V.C.,
D.S.O., M.C., etc. He was stunned ; then, franti-
cally, he rushed to her house. She was not yet
fully dressed, she received him with pretty confusion.
She was verv sQTvy about it all, she said. She was
frightfully sorry, she said. But she had fallen in
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The Luck of Captain Fortune
love. Victor Fortune was so fine, so magnificent —
<and it needed but her love and care to help him
combat his few weaknesses, which might be counted
human in other men but^ were unworthy and
degrading in such a man as Victor Fortune.
** And so he went away, her friend, never to
return. He never has returned. He never will
return, for thus it is written. And Captain Fortune,
who never ventured but he won, married his lady,
the lady of his dreams. . .
What could we say ? We could only say that
we were very sorry, frightfully sorry, but his lovely
lady had already told him that and it did not seqpi
to have soothed him. Tears smouldered in those
dark eyes, and I thought he was going to^ break
down. I filled him a glass of champagne.
** Sir,'' said he, “ your health. And your^,
madam.”
” Of course,” he whispered, ” she has never been
able to make a speech since. How could she ?
Without her old friend she is just a lovely woman,
a lovely woman whose life centres round her care
for Captain Fortune. And her old friend has gone
out of her life, he who loved her and §till loves her,
never to return, never. . . .”
He rose from his chair and looked miserably
down on us. Bravely, he tried to smile.
” I am so, so sorry,” murmured Shelmerdene.
And silently we watched his talJ. $^gure carving
a passage through the quality to the doorway.
84
The Luck oj Captain Fortune
A broken man is a more miserable thing than a
broken toy, and we were sad. ... ^
The agreeable and polished M. Risotto, prince
of maitres d^hdiels, ch^ced by our table.
“ Who,'* asked Shelmerdene, “ was that tall
gentleman who has just left us ? ’*
That, madam,** said the agreeable and polished
M. Risotto, “ is Captain Fortune, the most gallant
gentleman in England. . . .**
85
The Ancient Sin
I
George Tarlyon and I were engaged to stay the
week-end with Aubrey Carlyle at Malmanor Hall,
which is four hours by car from Hyde Park Corner,
though that, of course, rather depends on the kind
of car. George Tarlyon's — as that Armenian feilow
had noticed — ^was a good car, long and low, a
chaps' car, and we had run four-fifths pi our
distance very well : we had flashed through
a town, whose name is of no interest, and had
plunged into the peculiar wood of Carmion, which
shrouds the southern border of the domain of
Malmanor. We were therefore on the last lap,
and the fact that this lay through Carmion Wood
lent a certain interest to it ; for although Tarlyon
and I had very often stayed with Aubrey Carlyle at
Malmanor, we had never, somehow, really penetrated
into Carmion. I don’t know why, but it just hadn't
happened ; and George Tarlyon was now running
his car along the broad sweep of its central and only
road because of a vague idea that it was a short
cut as compared to the main road. Jt was a rotten
idea, that of George Tarlyon's.
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The Ancient Sin
One of the many silly legends about Carmion
Wood is that only foreigners may hear the singing#
of the birds therein, while for Englishmen there
is no sound but the njptling of the leaves and the
sighing of the boughs. How that sort of nonsense
ever gets hold of a countryside, I don’t know.
And the fact that, as George Tarlyon rushed the
car along the twilight road — ^for although it was a
bright summer’s day, the leaves are very thick
on Carmion trees — ^we could hear no birds singing
was. without a doubt, simply because they were
singing somewhere else that afternoon. "Obviously,”
I said to Tarlyon, who had suggested that had I
had a Spanish mother I could now be enjo3dng the
sweet iiilling of rooks and the back-chat of black-
birds, ’’ obviously they can’t always be singing in
one place.’’
“ Listen,’’ said George Tarlyon, and when you
listened it really was rather curious, the silence of
Carmion Wood. " Quiet we call silence, the merest
word of all,” some one has written, Poe, I think;
but that word applied very fully to Carmion, it was
so silent ! If only there had been a wind, just to
give the leaves a littfe fun ! But there wasn’t a
breath, it was a close day in August, and the wood
was a crypt, that’s what it was. I said so to
Tarlyon, but all he said was that he was hungry.
Later on he grunted : "You and your cr3rpts ! ”
" It’s a pitj,’’ J said reasonably, " that the sun
doesn’t get a bit further into this place.
87
• • •
The Ancient Sin
** Dolorous is the word for it,” murmured Tarlyon ;
vmd he was quite right, amazingly right. “ Dolorous”
was certainly the word for it.
"Open your cut-out, ma^!'* I said at last, for
that car was really too well-bred. And with a
twist of his foot he opened the cut-out. What a
cut-out I But it did make things seem more
homely.
II
The car rushed on. . . . The straight road under
the thick tapestry of leaves would take us directly
to the parkland of Malmanor ; through the opening
at the end, for Carmion Wood ends sharply, we
could see in the far distance, lying in the *hollow
of the county like an ancient pink jewel in a green
bowl, the vast Elizabethan pile of Malmanor Hall.
The car rushed on . . .
" Bang ! ” said the car, but Tarlyon said worse
than that as he pulled up,
" This,” I said, as we looked at the flattened
back t5n:e, ” this comes of taking short cuts.”
The matter with Tarlyon was that he had no
luncheon and was hungry. Now George Tarlyon
is my greatest friend, but this I had against him,
that he swore too much. Like many other men,
decent men, he swore too much and too often.
I can say ” damn ” with any man^I have said
"bloody,” and will again when it is organic to the
88
7'hf Ancient Sin
occasion, but what humorous writers in the
magazines call scientific swearing does not amuse/
ixie. I do not wish to seem superior, but it
just does not amuse m^. In the Middle Ages men
swore mightily on the names of the Trinity and the
Saints, but then they believed mightily in the
Trinity and the Saints. Now men swear and curse
on the names of everything and believe in nothing.
It is the habit of the modem world ; it is the habit
of being in a hurry ; it is the habit of unholiness.
And it had grown on my friend, George Almeric
St. George Tarlyon, who was otherwise a reasonable
sort of man.
To put on the spare tyre was only the work of
a few minutes ; and again the car rushed on . . .
and Irdm behind us came a cry. I looked back,
and there, twenty yards behind us, stood and
screamed a woman by the roadway.
Tarlyon was really remarkably fluent as he
reversed. He was hungry, you see.
We must have dropped something,” I suggested.
We drew abreast of the gesticulating woman on
the coarse grass by the road. She was just a slip
of an aged woman, and her hair was made of bits
of gray string, and her eyes leapt hysterically out of
a little, lined face. ” Come, come ! ” she was
screaming. ” Come, come quick ! ” She smelt
old, that woman.
The car had scarcely stopped abreast of her when
she turned an2f sc^pered away along a little lane
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The Ancient Sin
between the tall, still trees. It was extraordinary,
^he way she ran, that little old woman ! “ Come,
come quick ! *'
Well, there was nothing to do but to follow.
“ The girl's mad," snarled Tarlyon, as he strode
after the little old woman. But striding was no
use, it was a running job, and it was a hot day.
It was an untidy, tangled path up which she was
leading us — and how quickly she ran, that little
old woman, stumbling over her uncertain feet and
frantic gestures, while we ploughed on behind her
through the lush of the wood in July. It was an
amazingly hot day ; the Press for the last week or so
had been full of surprise and congratulatiorf as
to the amazingly hot days we were having, and we
had now an unrivalled opportunity of testing the
veracity of the Press, but we would much rather
have forgone it. At that moment, following that
little old woman up that tangled path in Carmion
Wood, George Tarlyon and I were probably the
wettest men in England outside of a swimming-
bath.
" What the devil is it all about ? " muttered
Tarlyon, and was not soottied by my suggesting
that I thought it was all part of his idea of a short
cut to Malmanor — while the little old woman still
screamed at us to come quick, quick.
" Quick, quick ..." And at her heels we burst
out on to a clearing in the wood. The sun lay on
that clearing like a carpet of gold.
90
The Ancient Sin
in
Tarlyon and I sloped dead, and stared. We
stared hard. But the little old woman, still scream-
ing to us to follow, ran on ahead to the house. Yes,
there was a house in that clearing, a little farmhouse.
And the sun lay on it all like a carpet of gold :
that is how I saw it. . . .
** Not our business,'* muttered Tarlyon, and I
heartily agreed that it wasn't. We stood where
we were, with our eyes glued on what we saw ;
and George Tarlyon dug his hands deep in his
pockets. George Tarlyon always dug his hands
deep in his pockets when he wanted frightfully to
take them out.
A man was thrashing his son. I cannot explain
why, but we were somehow quite certain that the
thing the man was thrashing was flesh of his flesh
and blood of his blood. He was a huge man, with
a mane of gray hair and a long gray beard, and he
had on a bright red shirt. If I close my eyes now
I can see the blood-red of that huge bearded man's
shirt, I can see the curve of his great shoulders and
the muscles that stood out like lumps of rubber on
his half-bare arm as he beat his son with a stout
stick. And I can see his little old wife trying to
stay his hand, begging, praying, moaning. We
heard her moaning, like an old, old bird in pain.
And at that 'farlyon started forward a step. . . .
T.c.p. 91 G
The Ancient Sin
" Steady there ! ” cried Tarlyon sharply. " Steady,
Beaver I " The cry cut across the sunlit place, the
clear cry that has lit for England the darkest
comers of the world, and^the huge man in the
red shirt stayed his cudgel and looked at us.
But the little old woman still moaned, and it was
quite dreadful to hear that in the summer silence.
Ten yards separated us from that domestic scene,
but they were yards of bright sunlight, and we
could see every line on that patriarch's face. For
he was a patriarch. He was the most magnificent
man I have ever seen ; and Tarlyon and I, not
small men, felt withered under his straight look.
We stood rooted. •
“ Friends," said the old man, and his was the
voice of authority, " you must leave me ih peace
to drive the sin out of this my son. His mother
is a woman, and will pardon everything in those
she loves, but you are men and know the one sin
that is unpardonable by all men. Go your ways
in peace, and fear not to put your own houses in
order. ..."
And still he looked at us, that remarkable old
lecturer, his cudgel stayed ‘'in the air, his son at
his feet ; and his voice was the voice of a man who
has dmnk the vinegar of life, and his eyes were the
eyes of a man who has seen Christ crucified. That
is why we knew for certain, Tarlyon and I, that
whatever that ancient man said was tme, and what-
ever he did was right. " Come I whispered.
92
The Ancient Sin
You are right. It is your business/* cried
Tarlyon across the sunlight — and, dear God, it was !
For the thing happened then. We hadn’t noticed
that the son had cra^^ed from his father’s feet.
And what we saw was a spade raised high in the
sunlight, a spade crashing down and cleaving the
patriarch’s head like an axe, so that the blood
came out of it like the sap of a tight orange. With-
out a cry the old man fell, and red as his shirt
were the stones of the yard beneath his head.
The little old woman screamed. The son and his
spade lay where Tarlyon’s right hand felled him,
and Tarlyon knelt by the slaughtered old man.
I couldn’t move. I took up the gored spade and
held it^ a silly gesture. My heart beat like a bell
in m}‘ ears, and I remember there rose to my lips
prayers that I thought I had forgotten.
** Quiet, for one moment,” I heard Tarlyon’s
voice to the screaming old woman. I stared and
wondered at my friend, kneeling there on the dyed
stones and listening to the heart under the red shirt.
I could not have done that. I hate a lot of blood.
Then he rose and came towards me. I hated the
dark damp patches on his trouser-knees.
“ Quite dead,” he said. “ We must fetch the
police.”
Of course, I thought. And together we looked
down at the son on the ground. He was gibbering.
He had gone ij^d., ‘'Drat the boy ! ” said Tarlyon
thoughtfully.
93
The Ancient Sin
" I wonder/' I heard myself whisper, " what was
the one sin the old man said was unpardonable ? "
Tarlyon looked from the prostrate thing to me,
and I saw that those sligl^tly frozen blue eyes of
his were as miserable as the eyes of a hurt girl.
You see, that old man was a very remarkable
old man, and he was dead. . . .
I don't know," he whispered back. " You and
I, Ralph, and our friends, have become so civilised
that we don't know what the unpardonable sins
are. We simply don't know, old man ! We are
the world's soft people, Ralph. We are so civilised
that we pardon too much — both in ourselves and
other people ; and we call that being broad
minded, but it's really being flabby. But fliat old
man, I'm sure, was not " broad-minded," he was
as little " broad-minded " as Jehovah, and there
was one sin he simply would not pardon. And
we, who are civilised people, do not even know
what it was. ..."
We stared silently at the poor gibbering thing
at our feet.
" Better tie him up before leaving," I suggested.
" Don't you think," said" Tarlyon, " that one of
us should stay here while "
‘‘ I won't stay here alone," I said abruptly —
and I meant it. Nothing would have induced me
to stay alone in that ghastly sunlit spot, alone with
that lunatic boy and the little o|^ woman and
the butchered patriarch. How she moaned,
94
The Ancient Sin
that little old woman kneeling on the blooded
stones. ... «
With a silk handkerchief for his ankles and one
for his wrists, we trussed the poor boy against
the kitchen door. He could not have been more
than seventeen or so, and his young face was
hideous with fear.
We left the place quickly ; but I looked back just
once at the scene, for it seemed to me veiy strange
of the sun still to lie on it all like a carpet of gold.
That is how I felt about it.
IV
Swiflly Tarlyon put the bonnet of his car to the
direction from which we had come, where lay the
town whose name is of no interest.
How far is it, d'you think, Ralph ?
‘‘ About four miles,’' I ventured ; and Tarlyon
proceeded to eat up those four miles as a conjuror
eats up yards of ribbon. It perished beneath us,
that road, and the roaring cut-out tore the silence
of Carmion Wood inter a million bits, and may it
never have found them again ! Neither of us
spoke. I was feeling sick.
We reached the outskirts of the town, and a
piece of luck saved us from inquiring for the
police station^ for, approaching us on a bicycle,
we saw a blue, h^eted figure, and by the stripes
95
The Ancient Sin
on his arm we knew him for a sergeant of police.
kXarlyon pulled up.
‘ Better leave the bicycle and come with us to
Carmion Wood/* he said.^ ‘‘Explain as we go.
Urgent.**
The sergeant looked closely into Tarlyon*s face.
“ Right, sir,** said he, and quickly gave the
custody of his bicycle to a gnarled-looking woman
in the open doorway of a labourer*s dwelling.
“ What*s oop over ut Carmion ? *' asked she.
“ You may well ask,** said Tarlyon.
No laggard was that sergeant of police. A
grizzled man, with a reticent face. I sat behind
and heard Tarlyon explain. The sergeant said
nothing, listening intently, until the end. '
“ Where did you say the house was, sir ? ** he
asked them.
“ Fve just been telling you, man ! In a little
clearing in the wood.**
“ Very good, sir,** said the sergeant of police. .
Silently we sped into Carmion Wood.
“You see, sir,** said the sergeant, it*s a powerful
long time since Fve been here. Folk roundabout
mislike the wood.**
“ Don*t feel very attached to it myself,** grunted
Tarlyon. “ Ah, here we are ! *'
But it was not going to be as easy as that. For
when we left the car, at the identical spot where,
we were certain, the little old woman had stopped
us, we somehow lost our way. We wandered about
96
The Ancient Sin
for some time, up little twisting lanes, down tangled
untidy lanes, up no lanes at all : we ploughed/
through the growth and lush of the wood, like
angry flies beating abo^t a crypt to which the sun
filtered in tortured patches of light. We perspired
enormously — ^and Tarlyon lost his temper. He had
had no luncheon, you understand, and it was
now past five ; and so he was fluent in the
forbidden language. But the sergeant of police
was a tough and silent man, he neither sweated
nor spoke.
\^ere did you say the house was, sir ? '' asked
the sergeant at last : and ^’^ery amiably, I thought,
considering. . . .
'' Oh," says Tarlyon. So youVe heard me
mention a house, have you ! ''
We stood very still, the three of us, and Tarlyon
glared.
“ Look here, sergeant,"' he snarled, if you ask
me again where that house is I shall get cross...
Tve told you, man ! Body of God, if ”
“ Please y sir ! ” said the sergeant quickly.
“ What d'you mean by ' Please, sir .? " " Tarlyon
was well away. It vras a very warm day, you
understand.
I mean, sir," said the sergeant of police,
please don't swear on the name or the body of
God."
97
The Ancient Sin
V
Well, we went on . . . ai^, at last, unmistakably
hit the path up which we had followed the little
old woman. We followed the path, Tarlyon first,
then me, then the sergeant. And then we came
upon the clearing, and the sun lay on it like a carpet
of gold. We stared. Like idiots, we stared. For,
except the sun, there was nothing in that clearing
but the rust and bones of a long-ruined house.
You had, of course, suspected as much. You had
known that all along. You know all about those
silent woods and slaughtered men. You have b?en
let in before, by better men. But it was 'curious,
all the same. ...
" Is this where you said the house was, sir ? ''
the sergeant’s voice came gently.
We turned and looked at him.
" Because,” he went on, ” there’s been no house
here for more than thirty year. ...”
” Ah ! ” said Tarlyon ; that was about as much
as any one could say. And our eyes wandered over
the clearing, and we saw, bright against the mouldy
stones of the ruin, two silk handkerchiefs. . . .
Even the law was at last affected by the heat,
for he raised his helmet and passed a hand over
his almost bald head.
” Yes,” said the sergeant of police. ” There was
a house here thirty year ago, but it was burnt down
98
The Ancient Sin
by the men of the neighbourhood because of a
great crime that was done there. Parricide it was,
but the boy was pardoned, being judged mad, and
mad he must have beep, to kill the best and most
God-fearing man in the county. Good-day, sirs,
ril walk my way back. Yours was just an illusion,
I make no doubt. The sun, maybe. But it's always
had a bad name, has Carmion . . . Good-day,
sirs." And the sergeant of police went his way.
" Did you see him, did you see his face ? " I
gasped frantically. For the face of the sergeant
of police was the grown face of the lunatic boy
we had trussed up an hour before with our tA^o
silk handkerchiefs, and they lying where we must
have dropped them, drooping over the ruins. . . .
" And he has learnt his lesson," said Tarlyon,
and his face was as still as the gray water of a
rock-pool. '' He has leamt his lesson, Ralph —
and has taught me one. For the one sin that
the old man said was unpardonable by all men is
blasphemy. . .
99
The Cavalier oj the Streets
I
It would not have occurred to you that Mrs. Avalon
was a discontented woman. It would not even have
occurred to you that she could be, for what had she
not ? She was, of course, the wife of John Avalon,
K.C. But she was more than that, she was Fay
Avalon. Now of the lovely, the gracious Fay Avalon,
what shall be said that has not already been said ?
She was a figure of the world, and in it most cen-
trally situated. She had not pushed, but she was
there. More, she was a figure of legend, remote and
courteous. Every one knew about her, but of
nothing against her, and this was so because she
was a lady who never by an}^ means sought any
publicity but that which the love and respect of
her wide acquaintance spread for her. She was,
in fact, a darling. It was the fashion to speak well
of Fay Avalon, and it is only shallow people who
say that all fashions are shallow because they change.
There is nothing in the world that does not change,
and if fashions change oftener than most that is
because — ^well, it is difficult to say exactly why
that is, and anyway this is not the place for it,
ICO
The Cavalier of the Streets
Now why are people like sheep ? But perhaps it
would be better to ask : Why, in nearly all novels
and conversations, is there one law for the rich and
another for the poor ? y For in nearly all novels
and conversations there is a sort of asinine implica-
tion that among the rich, the social, there is no real
friendship, but that real friendship exists only
among the poor. For years and years and years
England has been living under a tyranny, a silly
tyranny : it is called the middle-class, and it is
belauded by all because nearly all belong to it.
Now if a writer writes of the middle-class he is
said to have a sense of the Reahty of Life, but
if he writes of the poor wretches who continue
to eke out a miserable existence on their capital
in Ma^air, it is said of him that he is writing
of people who do not matter, people who are not
worth writing about, people among whom none
of the real emotions exist, and so on. The patricians
never protest, for a gentleman is one who can take
abuse properly, the same, of course, applying to a
lady. But the others, the Backbone of England ! Oh,
what a Backbone that is, and how swiftly it becomes
a jawbone when it is scratched by a well-aimed bit
of contumely ! But what does all that matter,
particularly when we were talking of Fay Avalon,
and how charming she was. She had many real
friends, and these confided much in her, but in
them she did not confide. Fay Avalon was not
capable of telling even the least of her troubles to
lOI
The Cavalier oj the Streets
any one, for she was shy. Beneath her polish,
‘her wit, her grave courtesy — a rare enchantment,
that — ^her supreme ability as a hostess at whose
table enemies were notably changed to friends,
she was as shy as a girl. Never, never, in all her
brilliant life, and it really was a very brilliant life,
had she been able to exclude the idea that she
might very easily bore people, that, in fact, she was
not nearly so clever and amusing as other people.
That is why she never confided : she only seemed
to. . . .
One of the many secrets that Fay Avalon hid
within herself was that she was romantic, deeply.
She had always been romantic. John Avalon, I?.C.
had never been romantic, and never knew "anything
of his wife’s trouble. He loved his wife jeSJously,
but being a great K.C. is, of course, a very tiring
way of life, and so he spent most of his time with
her in sleeping.
Romance came into the life of Fa}^ AValon at .a
time when she would sometimes say : I am
older than most women.” She was thirty-eight
years old, and so she was sorry for herself, and
then romance came. It • was Prince Nicholas
Pavlovitch Shuvarov who brought it. He was,
of course, a refugee from Bolshevy, and it was said
that before the Revolution his people had owned
half of Petrograd, as was only natural, for there
are countless Russians of the old order in London
and Paris whose people once owned halves of
102
The Cavalier oj the Streets
Petrograd, not to speak of the Grand Dukes who
made such a mess of all of it. But Prince
N. P. Shuvarov was charming, and he was an
artist. You knew that^because people went about
saying he was charming and an artist. You
v/ere asked to respect him because he earned his
living, and of course you did what you were asked,
although you were not aware of any particular
esteem instantly alight in the eyes of those to whom
you volunteered the information that you worked
in the City, But life is different for Russians, they
look so tragic, even when drunk, and so one went
on respecting old Shuvarov for earning his living.
He did this amazing feat by going about doing
ghastly^ drawings of his friends Lady This and
Lady That, which he somehow sold to the illustrated
journals of the week, where they appeared in all
sorts of colours under headings like “ The Third of
Five Lovely Sisters '' or ** Popular Daughter of a
Great American,"' and boldly signed Shuvarov."
He was everywhere, in a quiet and pleasant way.
Sometimes he was at Fay Avalon's, but only
sometimes at Fay Avalon's. Superior people who
had read Dostoeffsky called him Nicholas Pavlovitch,
which is of course the proper way to address a
Russian gentleman ; while others just called him
Shove-off, though not as though they meant it,
for every one liked him. Women found him attrac-
tive. These I^ssians, they said, are so Sombre.
Mrs. Mountjenkins said he had Magnetism. " One
103
The Cavalier of the Streets
can feel it/' she said, '' when he comes into a room/'
Lady Carnal said he was charming and so sound.
In Prince Nicholas Pavlovitch Shuvarov, then,
Mrs. Avalon found romanci. No breath of scandal
had ever been breathed against her, and no such
breath was breathed now. Her purity and her
lovely aloofness were landmarks of London society
in the second decade of this century. Colonel
Repington, you will remember, remarked them
in particulai . During the period of the war alone
he sat beside her thirty-eight times for luncheon,
twenty-eight times for dinner, not to speak of the
iimumerable times when he said Good-evenii^ "
to her in such a way that she not only heard him
but answered him. He reports a conversation in
which Fay Avalon was distinctly heard to say to
the Home Secretary that she detested all secret
vices like drugs and love, especially middle-aged
love.
" One should live in public," said Mrs. Avalon.
It is the private life that has ruined so many
great lives and rotted so many good brains."
" Quite," said the Home Secretary. ** Quite."
But in a few days he had to resign owing to liver
trouble — so it was said — ^and Mrs. Avalon fell in
love with Prince N. P. Shuvarov. Her one lapse,
you understand. All her life she had longed for
this one thing, romance ; and at last it had come,
in the sombre eyes of a stranger. %
Mrs. Avalon did not know much about that Kind
104
The Cavalier oj the Streets
of Thing — ^the “ private life — but she knew a
good deal about her friends, and that was a good
deal more than she intended they should know
about her. She organiaid her life to suit her love.
It sounds beastly, that, but then you do not know
Fay Avalon and I do, and that is why I know that
nothing she did could ever be so beastly as if any
one else did it, for she was a darling. As for Prince
Shuvarov, he was Russian all the way and could
organise nothing. She adored that. . . .
II
Never, never, did they go anywhere together :
neither to the play, nor to a restaurant, nor to a
ball ; and only very seldom was he at her house,
a guest among many. But every afternoon Fay
Avalon would steal to her lover's studio in a quiet
street in Hampstead. Not, of course, in her car,
but in a taxi.
And what a relief it was, to enter the dim, bare
silence of that studio ! The clatter of the voices
of the luncheon-party^ she had just left faded
instantly from her mind, a lovely mist came in
between the unquiet delight of her heart and the
usual labours of her life. She rested on a divan in
a corner of that secret studio, while Shuvarov
would pace abput in his feverish way. It was a
very bare studio, but it would not have remained
105
The Cavalier of the Streets
so bare if she had had her way. Though, indeed,
Fay Avalon, she who had so despised the private
life,'* would have been shocked, she simply could
not have helped being shdcked, if he had not im-
patiently dismissed her offer to make of the studio
a pavilion worthy of Babylonian lovers. “ I make
just enough money not to starve," said Shuvarov.
“ And that is enough for any man."
They were, of course, quite often unhappy, for
Russians arc like that. There were scenes, intro-
spective and bitter, there were accusations, quarrels,
reconciliations. It was some time before Mrs.
Avalon realised that it is in the Slav Temperament
to make violent scenes about nothing and then^ to
5 deld adorably to passionate reconciliations. It
was rather wearing for the nerves, she protested.
" You have lived smoothly for too long," he retorted
in a harsh moment. " You have known no wretched-
ness, Fay, because you have felt nothing ! God,
you Englishwomen ! In Russia our women live,
they feel, ..."
But Fay Avalon only sighed at that, certain that
no woman anywhere could feel so much as she . . .
and she was a little afraid 'for herself, the way this
thing she had not known before, this, thing called
love, had taken hold of her. ^
One day their privacy suffered a shock. Mrs.
Avalon had just left the studio, in the evening, and
had turned the corner into a more ^equented street
in search for a taxi, when a tall, ^abby young
io6
The Cavalier of the Streets
man confronted her. He stood before her so that
she could not pass, and his face mocked her, a lean
face made very sinister by his nose, perhaps a fine
nose once but now broken so that it inclined notice-
ably to one side. He examined her with a sneer in
his eyes. She did not at first know it for a sneer,
for no man had ever sneered at Fay Avalon before.
He swept off his hat, a sardonic gesture, and he
replaced it. It was a soft, dirty, dilapidated hat
of the rakish sort, such as has been worn by every
pirate that has ever been heard of.
** Good-evening, Mrs Avalon,” said the shabby
young man.
” I am afraid . . doubtfully began Fay
Avalon.
Not at all ! ” said the shabby young man.
He smiled graciously.
It is my misfortune,” he said, ” that we have
not been introduced. I have not been going about
very much in society lately, because of one thing and
another. And I called you by your name merely
to show you that I know who you are. I also know
where you have been. I can't, of course, say that
I know exactly what you have been doing, but
I can’t help thinking that your husband would
have no doubt about it. Husbands are like that,
madam. Juries are also like that. I wonder,
Mrs. Avalon, if you will think me very boorish if
I, well, insist o|i your lending me fifty pounds ? ”
The young man was very shabbily dressed, but
T.c.p. 107 H
The Cavalier of the Streets
he was so very unpleasant, so entirely and S 3 nn-
metrically unpleasant, that, she thought, he must
once have been a gentleman. She stared at him,
and she shivered a little.' Perhaps, she thought,
this is the first man I have ever met who has simply
no desire to please me. Perhaps most men are
only possible because they desire to please women.
This one is unaffectedly foul. . . .
“ You are blackmailing me, then ? '' she asked
him : and her voice did not tremble more than
ever so little.
“ Yes,’* said the shabby young man. “ And
I am doing it as unpleasantly as I know how.
I am sure, Mrs. Avalon, that you had rather I w?is
unpleasant than that I made love, like the greasy
blackmailers one meets in books. And, anyhow,
I could not possibly compete with Prince Nicholas
Pavlovitch Shuvarov. These foreigners, I am told,
have the technique ...”
She stared at him with unbelieving eyes. Could
there be men such as this, so foul ! To what awful
depths of bitterness must this revolting man have
sunk, that he could so wantonly and cruelly insult
a stranger !
“ I realise you dislike me very much,” said the
young man with the broken noje. “ But, even so,
I should prefer that that matter of the fifty
pounds should engage your attention more or less
immediatelv.” ^
Mrs. Avalon shivered a little.
io8
The Cavalier of the Streets
Don't, please, speak any more ! " she breathed
at last. “You seem to know so much that I am
sjre you know the adckess of my house. The
telephone-book will, however, provide you with
any details that may have escaped your attention.
If you will call at noon to-morrow you will be given
an envelope at the door. May I pass now, please ? "
“ Why, of course ! " said he, and stood aside.
But somehow she did not pass immediately.
She stared into his face with very wide, childish
eyes, and there was a queer sort of hurt smile
crucified in their depths.
I have never been spoken to like this before,"
she said. “ Who are you ? "
“ I am the cavalier of the streets, madam," said
the tall shabby man with the broken nose. She
stared at him very thoughtfully.
“ And is that a good thing to be ? "
The cavalier of the streets smiled curiously.
“ I had thought, Mrs. Avalon, that it was I who
was detaining you. ..."
“ You see," said Mrs. Avalon gently, “ you are
the vilest man I have ever met. You are probably
the vilest man in the wotld, and so I am curious.
You will have your fifty pounds. Or would you not
prefer a hundred ? "
But the ice of Fay Avalon did not freeze the
cavalier of the streets.
“ I do not accept presents from ladies," he said.
" Fifty is business, but the extra fifty is an insult
109
The Cavalier of the Streets
to a gentleman/' He smiled right into her face,
" You may pass, Mrs. Avalon."
You are a gentleman ?
mean ? " '
You were, perhaps you
" A gentleman," said the shabby young man,
" is a man who is never unintentionally rude to
any one. I am a gentleman."
He stood aside, and swept off his dilapidated
hat. She took one step, two, three. . . .
I do hope," she murmured swiftly, " that I
will never see you again."
The lean, weathered face with the fantastic nose
mocked her. Fay Avalon had never been mocked
before. *
Didn't I tell you," he said, " that I was the
cavalier of the streets ? I am alone, the solitary
supporter of chivalry and all manner of outdoor
manliness. Thus, it will be very difficult to resist
the pleasure of seeing you again, Mrs. Avalon, for
you are, without a doubt, a darling. But *I will
try to resist it, really I will. . . ."
" Please," said Mrs. Avalon, and went swiftly.
m
The next afternoon Mrs. Avalon had promised
to appear at a charity matinie in a playful duologue
„ between Cleopatra and a hearty gentleman alleged
to be Mark Antony's valet ; and as she had never
no
The Camiter of the Streets
gone to the trouble of acquiring a reputation as
Unreliable — ^in fact, Fay Avalon was bom with
** careless habits of accuracy — and though she
was feeling less like Cleopatra than she had ever
felt in her life, it was only after she had done her
duty by the charity matinie that she set out for
the quiet street in Hampstead.
She gave Nicholas Pavlovitch only the bald
outline of the beastly happening. Blackmailer,
money. He blushed furiously. Often she had seen
him blush, but never as now. He was like a child
who has just been smacked and knows he has not
deserved it. He couldn't, he said, bear the in-
decency, the shame, of it . . . that, through loving
him, she should have to endure this awful thing.
There was only one thing to do. She must “ cut
him out," that's all ! And how funnily tragic that
slang sounded in his twisted Russian pronunciation.
She laughed at that. Not much, but just enough.
“ We do not," she said, " take our tragedies so
tragically. But scratch a Russian and you find a
baby . . ." She kissed him.
" It is easier than that," she explained. “ You
must move, dear. For Weeks you have been com-
plaining of the lighting in this studio — and now
you have every excuse for taking steps about leaving
it. Long steps are preferable, Nicholas. From
Hampstead to Chelsea, in fact. ..."
Shove-off took steps at once, and these lead him
to a httle studio in a little street off the King's
III
The Cavalier of the Streets
Road, Chelsea. It was a little street like another,
with a pillar-box at one end and the noise of buses
at the other. Near the pillar-box was a lamp-post.
And one autumn evening; as Mrs. Avalon walked
from her lover's studio into Cheyne Walk, she saw
a man leaning against the lamp-post, and under a
soft dilapidated hat she saw the shape of a lean
face and a broken nose. He was motionless, in-
different, and he was not looking at her but at the
wind that blew the leaves about the little street.
Her heart jumped, and then was as still as a cut
flower.
“ So ! *' she whispered bitterly. Blackmailers
are like history, then ! " •
The vile person made the courteous gesture.
** Mr. Beerbohm has it," the vile person said
gravely, " that it is not history that repeats itself
but historians who repeat one another. A charming
writer, don't you think ? "
“Oh, dear ! " said Mrs. Avalon very miserably,
“ I thought you were vile ! But I am disappointed
in you. I actually thought you would leave me
alone. You are even viler than I thought, you who
call yourself the cavalier df the streets ! "
“ Perhaps," murmured the shabby young man.
“ Perhaps. It seems always tp have been my fate
to find out the indecencies of decent people, and so,
of course, decent people do not take a very liberal
view of me. You find me this evening, Mrs. Avalon,
in a conversational vein."
II2
The Cavalier oj the Streets
There was a ghastly sort of subtlety in his neglect
to mention why he was there, a thin, rakish hawk
by the lamp-post. Impotent, she loathed him.
And she passed him resolutely, with a very proud
face, one step, two, three. . . . And then his voice
fell harshly on her back:
You are the kind of woman men dream about
in lonely moments. My life is made of lonely
moments, and I think this is the lonehest of all.
Go away quickly. Fay Avalon !
Bewilderment wheeled her round.
What did you say ? '' she cried.
But he stood as when she had first seen him, the
silhouette of a hawk with a broken nose, and he
stared not at her but at the wind that blew the
leaves about the little street.
“It is not worth repeating,’’ he said sharply
into the middle air. “ But to what I said, I added
* Go very quickly,’ and I meant it — ^for your sake.
This is a lonely place, Mrs. Avalon, and the cavalier
of the streets is as nearly an outlaw as any one
outside a cinema. It is a long time since I kissed
a lady, and the only thing that restrains me from
doing it now is the fact that I have never in my life
kissed any one who did not wish to be kissed by
me. So you had better go quickly, Fay Avalon.”
She went, as swiftly as a shadow.
The Cavalier oj the Streets
IV
Mrs. Avalon, after her Li horrid experience,
had had the forethought to keep in her jewel-safe
a roll of Bank of England notes. That evening,
having sent her maid from the room, she counted
out five notes from the roll. She smiled wryly . . .
And so,’' she thought, ** this is hell. And Fay
Avalon is well in it, she is in a very ghastly hell."
Very slowly, very absently, she recounted the five
ten-pound notes. They were clean and crisp and
delicious, marvellously above the funny stuff that
passes for money in France and America. They
were s3mibols of a spacious England, of splendid
adventurers and gallant merchantmen, they were
symbols of all the luxuries of race and manners,
dead now except in the hearts of a few shy people.
A Bank of England note is the cleanest expression
money has ever acquired, it is more than money,
it decorates money. Only one of the five notes
that passed through Mrs. Avalon's fingers bore
even a sign that other human hands had ever
touched them, and that wa^ but a little splash as
of red ink on its back.
She put them in an envelope, wrote “ To C. O. S."
across it, and privily instructed the butler that he
give it into the hands of the person who had already
called once before and who might caliagain towards
noon the following morning.
114
The Cavalier of the Str^et^
“The gentleman called, madam, “ said Smith
the next morning, when she came in from a walk
for luncheon. •
“ The gentleman. Smith ? “
“ He had that manner, madam.“
“ There will be ten for luncheon, not eight,
Smith."
“ Major Cypress and Mr. Trevor rang up to
inquire if you expected them to luncheon, madam.
They seemed, I think, disappointed that you did
not."
" They rang up together ? "
“ Such was my impression, madam. They said
that there must be some mistake about your not
expecting them to luncheon as they had not been
asked to luncheon anywhere else. On asking my
opinion as to whether, if they called at about half-
past one, you would or would not ask them to stay,
I ventured to say, madam, that it was very probable.
I gather that that will make twelve for luncheon,
madam."
Mrs. AvaJon smiled, “ Very good. Smith."
" The gentleman who called left this letter,
madam."
" Put it down over there. That will do. Smith,
thank you."
When she was alone she gingerly touched the
letter. It was not addressed. The expression on
her face was sm though she was breathing the air
of a pest-house.
115
The Cavalier of the Streets
I see/' said the note, " that you think me even
viler than I am. That is what I intended. By
giving me money when I ^id not ask for it, you
have made the profession of blackmailer an impos-
sible one for a man of sensibility. Good-bye."
v
She did not tell Nicholas Pavlovitch of this
second encounter. It would, she thought, be only
disturbing him for nothing, for she was quite con-
vinced that she had now seen the last of the cavalier
of the streets. She couldn't help having a litfle
private conceit about it. After all, not every
woman would have managed that foul man so
— certainly not those notoriously managing women
who know How to deal with men. " Oh, dear ! "
she thought, " I am clever, I really am ! " Even
this man, so brutally undesirous to please, had
been charmed back into the loathsome shades
whence he had so horridly come — so impressed had
he been by her original way of being blackmailed
that he had been appalled into respectful invisibility.
She had, after all, allowed herself to be blackmailed
charmingly, she had been as charming as any
woman being blackmailed could possibly be.
It was because of such thoughts that, eleven
evenings later, she was so particularly angry :
for the lamp-light near the pillar-box feU on the
ii6
The Cavalier of the Streets
figure of the cavalier of the streets, the careless,
rakish figure at his disgusting post. By the beating
of her heart, she kneW|him yards and yards away.
Still she stood for one^long moment, to quiet her
heart, and then, intolerantly, she swept on. She
was humiliated in a most private conceit. She
was angrier than she had ever been in her life.
Swiftly she pressed on, to pass him with in-
expressible contempt ; but the pavement was
narrow, and wide the sweep of the bad man's hat.
Forgive me," said he. " I had not intended
to worry you again, but "
" You do not worry me/' said a lady to an insect.
“ In that case," said the cavalier of the streets,
" I may spare you my apologies, which, I assure
ycu, are quite dangerously insincere. I had intended
not to sin against you again. But, this very after-
noon, something has happened, something really
rather awkward. I do not often lose money at
poker, Mrs. Avalon — in fact I make a point of not
losing money at poker, in so far, of course, as a
man of honour may make a point about a hazard.
But, whether it was the memory of your beauty,
for I may not ever forget it, that came between
me and my skill, or whether — Oh, what does
it matter why it was, since the fact remains that
I have lost money, and must pay what I owe or
forfeit my honour. . . ."
" Your honour ! " she gasped. Oh, commedia,
commedia I "
117
The Cavalier of the Streets
“ I could wish I was as privileged as you to take
a comical view of it . It is only a small debt, however.
A matter of twenty pound|. I have still ten left
of the fifty you so kindly lent to me the other
day — I wonder, Mrs. Avalon, I wonder if you could
by any chance help me with the rest ? I should be
so grateful.’'
So she had been right about him, after all ! He
would not have come again, in the ordinary way.
She looked into his eyes, and they were as the
eyes of other men. The cavalier of the streets was
without his sneer.
“ Yes,” she said gravely. “ A debt of honour —
surely you must pay a debt of honour, 0 cavalier
of the streets ! It is very commendable in you to
want to.”
“It is merely good sense, madam. Like aU
matters of honour. If one does not pay, one does
not get paid.”
Her fingers were playing within her bag. They
ceased.
“ I’m so afraid,” she murmured, “ that I have
only a few shillings . . .”
“ Pity ! ” whispered the * shabby young man ;
and he smiled curiously, as might a man whose
horse has been beaten by a short head.
“ I will go home,” said Fay Avalon, “and get
you the money,”
“ You will do nothing of the sortf Mrs. Avalon.
Ridiculous to put you to that trouble for a mere
ii8
The Cavalier of the Streets
ten pounds. Besides, it might cause comment if
I showed myself at your door again.'*
‘‘My butler though^ you charming," she told
him gravely.
“ Therein he discerned your influence over me,
Mrs. Avalon. No, I have a better idea ! Go back
to Prince Shuvarov and ask him to "
“ But he is so poor ! "
“ Heavens, those insufferable drawings of his
must sometimes fetch some money ! Try, please.
It is only fair, after all, that he should contribute
a little towards my support "
“ Your debt of honour, surely ! "
I am rebuked. A man's honour would be very
adequately preserved by you, Mrs. Avalon But
please do as I suggest. I will abide by the weight
of Shuvarov's pocket."
With a quick gesture, she left him. She found
Shuvarov preparing to shave, for when he was
dining out he always shaved twice, like all proper
men. She did not give him time to voice his surprise
at her re-entrance.
" That wretch is here again," she explained
swiftly. ‘‘ I know you are poor, dear, but have you
just a few pounds you could lend me ? Ten, for
instance ? "
Shuvarov began furiously, his cheeks manthng.
" That man . . ." He waved his shaving-brush.
" Never mujd that now, dear. Have you or
haven't you the money ? Please, Nicholas ? "
119
The Cavaiier of the Streets
She was always gentle with him. He was such
a child.
Nicholas Pavlovitch shru^ed his shoulders, and
banged down the shaving-brush.
You are encouraging him," he said fatalistically.
" Lucky I sold a drawing for just that amount to-day.
Lucky for that man, I mean." He fumbled in his
waistcoat pocket, and gave her a banknote.
" Bless you, Nicholas ! " she cried softly, and was
going, when the light fell on the banknote in her
hand so that there was visible on it a little splash
as of red ink. . . .
Slowly, she looked up at Prince Nicholas Pavlo-
vitch Shuvarov. Her lips did not move, but h%
understood, and his thin, handsome face went as
white as a soiled handkerchief.
The cavalier of the streets saw her face as she
approached. She flung the note at him, so that it
fell from his jacket to his feet. She passed him.
But fingers swiftly clutched her arm, so that it hurt.
"That," he said harshly, "will teach a lovely
lady to love scum. I intended that it should.
He and I arranged the coup, ages ago. But
when I saw you the first time, in Hampstead,
I sickened. That is why I was so beastly, that
you should hate me as much as I hated myself.
Le coup est nul, I told Shuvarov after that.
Since then your face has haunted me. So I did
this — ^to cure you of your silly infatuation for a
man who would eat into your fife like a foul httle
120
The Cavalier of the Streets
worm into a lovely fruit. God, how you could
ever have liked that lousy, halt-baked, professional
Russian ! I saw him to-^ay, and saw that he still
had the note with the red mark on it — ^this ! "
And he ground his heel on the note on the pavement.
Tighter he held her arm, and he scowled into her
face. She thought of the wet-white she would have
to use on her arm to hide the bruises of his
fingers.
“ You’re hiuting me ! ” she cried.
I know. I have sinned against you,” he said,
” but you have done worse. You have sinned
against yourself. Now go, and sin no more. And
you’d better go damn quick else you’ll be very
late for dinner and the old K.C. will get cross.”
” You to talk of sin ! ” she cried, and laughed.
” Naturally, Fay Avalon. For only Satan can
rebuke sin with authority.”
” Oh, pouf ! ” she laughed. ” You are sentimental
then ! ”
Hell ! ” snapped the cavalier of the streets.
” I am in love ! ” And as he swept off his dilapidated
hat she could not help a thought that a plume would
wave more becomingly 'from that particular hat
than from any other hat she knew or would ever
know. Romance. . . .
” Oh, dear ! ” sighed Mrs. Avalon. ” Good-bye.”
But the cavalier was already only a distant shadow
in the street. 9
121
Major Cypress goes oj[ the Deep End
i
This story has no point. No story that has anything
to do with Hugo Cypress could have a point, for
Hugo is an utterly pointless man. Dear Hugo. . . .
I have known him since he was so high, and as
I was also so high, I know him well. I could tell
you of many little happenings, just to show jfou
the sort of man he was, but one in particular, a
martial one, vividly occurs to me. It was in
the third year of the war, and I had been shoved
into the War Office, because of a personal
application of that great scientific truth to the
effect that two things cannot be in the same
place at once, particularly if one of them happens
to be a German shell ; and, one day, Hugo called.
His arm was in a sling and a light was in his eye.
Dear Hugo. ...
“ Show me,'" said Hugo, “ a man who will give
me a job of work.'"
I showed him old Tornado Toby — officially known
as Major-General Sir Tobias Blast, K.C.M.G., D.S.O.,
M.V.O., O.U.D.S., etc. I stood 'm a far comer,
and was very silent.
122
Major Cypress goes ojj the Deep End
" What d’you want ? ” said Sir Toby.
" Job of work, sir.”
” Where ? ”
“ Commission going to Iraq, sir."
" Why ? ”
“ Don’t know, sir. But it’s going.”
“ Idiot. Why d’you want the job ? ”
“ Chap must have a job of work, sir,”
Tornado Toby looked him over contemptuously,
and his eye roved from the crown on Hugo’s
shoulder-strap to the bits of ribbon on Hugo’s
sleeve and the light in Hugo’s eye.
” What’s the matter with you as you are ? ”
" Fired out, sir. Sick.”
Sir Toby’s eye at last came to rest on Hugo’s
disabled arm. He drew a blank form towards him.
I played about with a cigarette-case.
“You can smoke,” he snarled. “ What are they ? ”
“ Virginian, sir.”
" Pah ! You can’t smoke.”
He looked at Hugo.
“ Sit down, Major.”
“ Thank you, sir.”
Sir Toby poised pencil over paper.
“ Education ? ”
" None, sir.”
" Where were you educated ? ”
“ Nowhere, sir.”
" Idiot. Wl^re were you at school ? ”
“ Eton, sir.”
T.C.P.
123
I
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
" Shake/’ said Sir Toby.
They shook.
" What qualifications for this job in Iraq ? Think
before you answer.”
” Thank you, sir.”
Hugo thought.
” Can’t think of any, sir,” he said at last.
” Languages ? French ? ”
” Very guarded, sir.”
Can you live on your pay ? ”
” Live on an5d:hing, sir.”
” Hum ! Any private means ? ”
” Very private, sir. Never seen them.”
” How d’you live in London, then ? ”
” Pretty well, sir.”
Hugo got that job, and in 1919 he came back
to England, very bronzed and lean and gay. But
the gaiety did not last very long.
Now Hugo, in the days of his first youth, had
been consumed by an ambition to be regarded, as
the kind of man to whom no chaste woman should
be allowed to speak. But nothing ever came of
that, he never even succeeded in persuading a
chaste woman to cut him ; wherefore in the
course of time he came to think of himself as a
poor harmless idiot who was liked by every one
and loved by none. ” Dear Hugo,” people said.
That was all right in its way, said Hugo, but he
was not so young as he had been^^and it got, he
said, on his nerves a bit. ...
124
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
Soon after he had returned from the Near East,
and when the gaiety had worn off, he discovered a
pressing desire to Settle Down. And he cast a keen
eye round and about the fair land of Britain, and
behold ! he saw Miss Shirley St. George — and,
still worse, got it into his head that she had seen
him. Immediately, he fell in love with Miss Shirley
St. George. He had, of course, no money : she
had no money. He proposed to her : she refused
him. He begged : she laughed. " Dear Hugo,*'
she said.
II
Now Miss Shirley St. George was little sister to
George Tarlyon, whom 1 think Fve told you
about.
One morning Hugo arose from his bed in the
chambers, which he could not afford, and directed
the valet, whom he could not afford, to send this
telephone message: ‘'Major Cypress desires to
see Lord Tarlyon at his club at once."
“ Lord Tarlyon," came the answer, " will see
Major Cypress at Lord Tarlyon's club at Lord
Tarlyon's convenience, and desires Major Cypress
to stand at attention when speaking to him."
There are many clubs in Saint James's Street,
but there is one in particular, towards the northern
part, much ref jarred to by biographers of persons
of ton of more elegant times. Thither, that morning
125
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
at a reasonable hour, went Major Cypress, very
thoughtfully. Tarlyon was there. Tarlyon was
always there, at a reasonable hour.
" Bronx or Martini, Hugo ? ”
“ Sherry, thanks.”
" Nice morning, Hugo. Up late last night ? ”
“ No,” said Major Cypress. “ No. I was not up
late last night, George. And if you really want to
know, I think it is a very classy morning.”
" Well,” said Tarlyon, “ you can’t say fairer than
that, old man.”
Silence. . . .
“ Sir,” said Major Cypress, " have I your permis-
sion to pay my addresses to your little sister with
a view to a matrimonial entanglement ? ”
"Ho ! ” said Tarlyon.
“ What the devil do you mean by sa 3 dng ‘ Ho ! ’
when I ask you if I can pay my ”
" You can pay her what you hke,” said Tarlyon
sulkily.
" I thank you,” said Hugo.
“ But,” said Tarlyon, " can you pay her anything
at all ? Major C)^ress, are you in a position to
support a wife ? ”
" Well, I never ! ” gasped Hugo. " I’m on half-
pay, man ! ”
" Ho 1 ” said Tarlyon. “ I withdraw my consent.
I hate to be unkind to majors, but I’m afraid I
must. How are you going to live, ^pan ? ”
“ Can’t worry about cheques in Paradise, George.”
126
Major Cypress goes o£ the Deep EnJ
“ Good for you, old Hugo ! Very pretty. Bronx
or Martini ? ”
" Sherry, thanks. George, you don’t know what
love is. . . .”
“ Keep nothing from me, Hugo. What is love ?
Ah, what is love ? I insist on being told. . . .”
" Love,” said Hugo, " is proposing to Shirley
five times in five months and being rejected five
times in five months . . . O God ! ”
“ What did the girl say ? ”
“ Say ! She laughed at me, George. Five times
running ! ‘ Dear Hugo . . That’s what she
said !”
“ Poor old Hugo ! ”
“ She said, George, that she could never, never
marry me. . . .”
“ Well, damn it, man, you didn’t take that
lying down, did you ! And you a Major ! ”
" I took it lightly, George. I smiled. I distinctly
remember smiling. O God ! ”
“ T am so sorry, Hugo ! I really am, you know.
Honestly, old man, I’d sooner have you for a
brother-in-law than any man alive — except, perhaps,
a Rockefeller.” •
“ Money, George, isn’t everything.”
“ You’re right there, old man. Your money is
completely nothing, anyhow. What’s your next
step ? Orchids ? ”
" I am no good at those Dago tricks, George.”
" Shirley’s very partial to carnations, old man.”
127
Major Cypress goes of the Deep EnS
No, George. Not even carnations. She'd
laugh at me. She'd say ‘ dear Hugo ’ . .
Well, old man, you might go further and hear
worse. It's purple carnations she’s especially fond
of, by the way."
" George, I'm going to try just once again —
without carnations. Just once more, old man.
And I thought I'd get your backing."
" Full and square, Hugo, it's with you. The
cheek of that girl ! Shall I ring her up and. . . ."
" For God's sake don't ! But you're a good
fellow, George ... I say, if she refuses me again
I don't know what I'll do."
" Have a drink, old man. Bronx, sherry, t)r
Martini ? "
" No more, thanks."
" Well, best of luck, old man ! "
" Thank you, George. Good-bye."
" See you this evening ? "
" Look here, old man, I don't want to be dramatic
and all that, but you may never see me again."
And Hugo was stone-cold serious. He was probably
the most serious man in England at that moment.
" Good-bye, old man. Thaffiks so much.”
" Just a moment." And George Tarlyon went
to the writing-table, rapidly wrote a short note,
and put the envelope into Hugo's hand.
" Give that to Shirley," said he. But Hugo
looked suspicious. %
" It's about the theatre to-night," explained
128
Major Cypress goes ojj the Deep End
Tarlyon. Tm taking her to Loyalties, to improve
her mind/*
'' Ah/' said Hugo. Loyalties ! Ah ! Jew play.
Very improving." Hugo thought weightily.
“ Look here," said Hugo, " you know about
these things — ^you were bom to be a co-respondent,
George. Got any tips to give a chap ? "
" There's only one, old Hugo — ^take 'em young
and treat 'em rough. Hairy, primitive man
business, you know. ‘ Come here, woman, and
ril learn you ' stuff. But it works better with
some than with others, and it's rather risky. You
might try giving her a thick ear, though — only
in fun, of course. Cat playing with mouse motif.
Terder brutality's your line, Hugo. Many a good
woman's been won by a little tender brutality
tastefully applied. Just put it to her gently that
you'll give her a thick ear unless she accepts you.
You can always lead the conversation to ears,
somehow. . . . Well, good-bye. Luck, Hugo. Hey,
don't forget your hat ! "
Miss Shirley St. George lived with her aunt
in Audley Square, Tarlyon saying that he was no
fit person for a young girl to live with, and the
aunt agreeing.^ They adored each other, George
and Shirley.
129
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
Towards Audley Square walked Major Cypress,
very thoughtfully. Piccadilly had to be crossed,
from the new Wolsely building to Mr. Solomon’s,
the florist. Piccadilly was crossed, miraculously,
for the trafiic was thick, though genial. A newsboy
yelled “ Execution of Erskine Childers ” into his ear.
" Boy,” said Major Cypress, " you must not do
that. You must not gloat on death like that, and
before perfect strangers, too. And, besides, though
you may not have shared Mr. Childers’s political
opinions, you must admit that he did not die
meanly. Here’s a shilling for you, and don’t let
me hear you talking so much about executions in
future.” •
Major Cypress then walked away a pace or two,
and stood before the flower-laden windows of Mr.
Solomon. The boy watched him.
“ Balmy,” said the boy.
" Mysterious disappearance of Child ! ” yelled
the boy.
“ Damn it,” thought Major Cypress. “ I am in
love. Oh, damn it ! ”
And he stared into the flower-laden windows of
Mr. Solomon. Orchids there were therein, yellow
and mauve and speckled. Roses, little, tight
autumn roses. Pink and white anemones, hyacinths
and jonquils, white Dutch lilacs and fat chr5rsan-
themums in white and bronze. And there were
carnations — aright in the middle of that pageant was
a splash of purple carnations.
130
Major Cypress goes of the Deep End
" Carnations/' thought Major Cypress. '' And,
in particular, purple carnations. But that is not a
proper way for an Enghshman to win a wife. A
little tender brutality is the way. But how to be
tenderly brutal ? Hell, I wish I was a Frenchman !
A gardenia, on the other hand, may not come
amiss. I will wear a gardenia. It will give me an
air of high-minded depravity, which, they say,
is attractive to young women."
Major Cypress entered within, and in due course
was served with a gardenia.
“ For your button-hole, sir ? "
" I suppose so," said Major Cypress. " But not
so much vegetable matter with it, please. I want
a gardenia, not a garden. Thank you."
" Thank you, sir. Nice morning, sir."
" I doubt it," said Major Cypress.
He wandered westwards, past the Berkeley.
The commissionaire at the restaurant doors saluted
him. Hugo liked that, and always rather sought
it. Tarlyon was of opinion that the commissionaire
probably mistook him for some one who had once
tipped him, but Hugo said that that was not the
point, while to be saluted by commissionaires on
Piccadilly was a thing that happened only to very
few people.
Major Cypress goes ojf the Deep Dnd
IV
At last, very thoughtfully, he came to the house
in Audley Square. As he rang, a clock struck one
and gave him an idea.
“ I will ask her to luncheon at Claridge's,’' he
thought. It will be a good opening.''
Major Cypress waited in the drawing-room for
quite a long time. He paced about. The floor
was of parquet, mostly uncovered, and so his feet
made a noise. He sat down.
You again ! " cried Shirley.
How are you, Shirley ? " •
I refuse to tell you, Hugo. I am tired of telling
you. Don't I look well ? "
Hum," said Hugo. He could never answer
questions like that.
Shirley came near. She was in a sort of bronze
dress of cripe marocain, and her throat glowed very
white. Her face Major Cypress did not actually
look at, it tempted him so exceedingly. Shirley
smiled.
" I will tell you," she smiled, " what you have
come to do, Hugo. You have come to take me out
to lunch."
I do wish," said Hugo, that you would get
out of that nasty habit of calling * luncheon ' lunch.
Lunch sounds hke a glass of milked a digestive
biscuit."
132
Myor Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
“ Dear Hugo !
“ Look here, Shirley, don’t ever say that again ! ”
Shirley was very near, and her white hands were
somehow like white flowers. But at her face he
did not look.
‘‘ Dea ”
Don’t ! ” he roared.
Now Shirley was twenty and tall and straight
and fair, and when she laughed you saw why
servants were polite to her on sight. And oh, she
was such a pretty girl !
“ Hugo,” she said, ”you are going to propose to
me again.”
” Oh, am I ! ”
” Yes,” she said, ” you are. And if you say you
are not, then you are a liar, and I don’t like
liars.”
Then something happened to Hugo Cypress ;
and, after all, he was thirty-four, and she only
twenty. He glared down at Shirley St. George,
and from his mouth issued reasonable and critical
noises, as befitted a man of thirty-four who has
offered his hand five times running to a slip of a
girl of twenty.
” Shirley,” he said, ‘‘ listen to me. You are a
very pretty young lady. I have so far been so shy
with you that I have not been able to tell you how
beautiful I think you are
” Thank you,#Hugo,” she said very softly. And
she tempted him exceedingly, but he continued on
133
Major Cypress goes o£ the Deep End
his manly way, glaring at a point half-way between
her right ear and her left shoulder.
Nor have I been able to tell you, Shirley, how
I love you. That was because I was shy — ^but I
have now finished with being shy. I adore you
so frightfully, my dear, that I have made myself
a carpet for you to walk on. And you have taken
advantage of me, that’s what you’ve done. Carpets
get frayed. You have treated me, Shirley, exactly
as a heartless, meretricious woman of thirty might
treat an infatuated soap-manufacturer. That is,
perhaps, because you are used to men being in
love with you, and know that they will love you
all the more the worse you treat them. Perhaps
you are right, Shirley. But I can’t bear it any
more, and so I am now going to leave this building
and your life. . . And Hugo went towards the
door with a firm step,
'' You’re not going, Hugo ! ” It was a cry.
** I am indeed, Shirley. Good-bye. And God
bless you.”
” Oh, dear, every man says ‘ God bless you ! ' ”
cried Shirley. ‘'It is the most final and most
bitter thing they can say, for they say it with
a prayer to the devil in their hearts. Go away,
Hugo Cypress. I hate you,”
” That’s why I am saying good-bye, Shirley.”
” But surely you can’t go without proposing to
me for the sixth and last time ! ” ^^Xid that was a
ciy.
134
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
Hugo opened the door ; and he smiled, in a sort
of way.
I thought I couldn’t, Shirley — ^but I find I
can.”
But you can’t, you simply can’t ! ” she cried.
“ Why, I came down to see you on the distinct
understanding that you were going to propose to
me for the sixth and last time and only then going
away for ever ! Hugo, you can’t do one without
the other — ^it’s not fair ! ”
** Don’t worry, little Shirley. The day is yet
young, and some one else is sure to propose to you
in the course of it. You v/ill observe, my dear, that
I am being cynical, after the manner of all rejected
young men.”
'' But, Hugo, I want you to — for the sixth and
last time, dear, just to see what I’ll say ! ” And
she tempted him exceedingly with her sun-lit
face.
” That’s just it, Shirley. I know what you’ll
say. Good-bye.”
” Oh, oh ! ” cried Shirley. ” How awful men
are ! And how d’you know what I’ll say, Hugo ?
You are a clever chap, ‘aren’t you? Are you a
psycho-analyst, Hugo ? Can you tell what is
passing in a woman’s mind by looking at her
instep ? And for heaven’s sake don’t go on standing
in that doorway looking like a draught ! ”
” Sorry, Shirle^.” And Hugo faded away round
the angle of the door and was closing it behind him.
135
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep Emd
Hugo, how dare you go like that ! " And that
was the most frantic cry of all ; and Hugo's face
reappeared round the angle of the door, and it was
a rather bewildered face.
Well, damn it, my dear, I must go somehow ! "
‘'Yes, but you know very well you can't live
without me — don't you, Hugo ? Now answer
truthfully, Hugo."
" Well, you know, since you came in this morning.
I've been thinking it over "
" But how awful you are to admit that you can
‘ think of anything when you're with Shirley ! "
" There you go ! " he cried harshly. " Making
a fool of me ! "
" But, my darling, I must make someth "
" What was that you said ? " he snapped.
" Have you gone mad ? Didn't you hear
me? "
" Child, did you or did you not call me ' darling '? "
" Why, so I did ! I'm so sorry, Hugo. . .
Hugo C5^ress advanced across the room and
towered above Shirley St. George.
“ Are you playing the fool, Shirley ? "
" I am playing for time,* my darling — ^lunch-time.
Luncheon-time, I mean."
She giggled.
Now Shirley was not given to giggling. . . .
No one had ever seen Shirley carrying an umbrella,
and no one had ever heard Shirle;}^ giggling.
" Ho ! " muttered Major Cypress.
136
I^ajor Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
** Don’t gargle in my aunt’s drawing-room,
Hugo ! ”
I’m thinking, Shirley.”
” Don’t think ! ” she cried sharply.
“ Well,” he began, and stopped.
Wipe your forehead, dear ; you’re rather hot.”
Hugo wiped his forehead.
” Look here, Shirley, supposing — ^just supposing
— ^that I so far forget myself as to prop ”
” Oh, Hugo ! ” And she clapped her hand —
liitle Shirley ! You must ! For the sixth and
last time . . . just to make it even numbers ! ”
Hugo’s face was as white as his gardenia.
” For the sixth and last time, Shirley, will you
marry me ? ”
As she stood, with the palms of her hands pressed
down on the table and her little face thrown back,
she was like a dove, still and absorbed. She was
absorbed in something that was Hugo, yet in
something that was much more than Hugo. And
then her lips trembled a little ; they whispered :
” Oh, Hugo, I have been such a beast ! But you
are so sweet that I simply couldn’t help it ! ’'
He didn’t understand..
But he understood when suddenly she crooked
an arm around his neck and brought his face down
to hers, and he saw that her eyes were wet. . . .
My God ! ” he said, and kissed her bravely.
” Of course,” ^e whispered. ” Of course. . . .”
” No, not like that,” she whispered. ” Not as
137
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep En^
though I were your sister. I beg you to observe
that I ain not your sister. Yes, properly, dear.
Oh, I do like you frightfully, Hugo. ...”
Then quite a lot of things happened at the same
time ; and then he cried ;
” But why didn’t you tell me before ? ”
“ Because I didn’t realise, my darling. I didn’t
know I loved you — and how can a girl know a thing
like that ? Oh, Hugo, you are so sweet ! What
fun to have you for keeps ! And it will be nice
to chew bits of you now and then — Oh, what fun
we’U have ! Dear Hugo. . . .”
“ And you said, Shirley, that you would never,
never marry me ! ” *
" I didn’t know myself, dear — ^nor you ! Until,
after the fifth time, when you went away saying
that you would never come back. And then I was
very sorry, Hugo.”
” Oh, by the way,” he said, “ here’s a note from
George — about taking you to Loyalties to-nigljt.”
She read the note.
" Oh ! ” she said.
“ What does he say ? ” he asked.
She tore up the note. ,
” Only that he’s got a box for Loyalties, and that
I may ask whom I like-- ”
“ Thanks so much, Shirley. I’d love to come.
It will improve my mind.”
Now this was the note from Qeorge Tarlyon to
his little sister, Shirley St. George :
138
Major Cypress goes ojff the Deep End
" Shirley, how dare you go about London refusing
to many such of my friends, if any, who ask you ?
‘ Never, never,’ indeed ! Remember, Shirley, that
there’s only one bigger he thcin ‘ never, never,’ and
that is ‘ always, always.’ ”
" Oh ! ” thought Shirley. “ Fat lot he knows
about it ! ” But all the same, she never said
‘ always, always ’ ; she just thought it.
The rest of this story is quite uninteresting, for
Hugo and Shirley were happy ever after: which
is, unfortimately, more than most people are, what
with first one thing and then another. . . .
T.C.P.
139
Consuelo Brown
It is told by young Raymond Paris, the novelist :
A few days after my arrival at the hotel on the
hill behind Algiers, where I intended to stay some
time for reasons best known to myself, I wrote
to a iriend in London, Ralph Trevor, telling him of
the place and the people, and, in particular, of
the people in my hotel. I must explain that I
am a traveller of ignoble inclinations, so that my
descent on Africa was in every way very dis-
similar from that of Mrs. Rosita Forbes. I cannot
lay claim to a very adventurous spirit — though, of
course, I am always ready to make a fourth, a
third, or a second, as the case may be but only too
seldom is. What I mean to say is that on* my
arrival in Algiers, instead of hiring a room so
situated in the town that I could see or smell its
Arab activities, I straightway made for the large
building which dominates the hill of Mustapha :
and which has about as much relation to Algeria
as the Carlton at Cannes, the Paris at Monte Carlo,
or the Normandy at Deauville.
There I stayed, and I wro^ to my friend,
describing the hotel, and the people in the hotel,
and how Robert Hichens w^as worshipped by the
140
Consuelo Brown
directors thereof, and how they fell down before
effigies of the authoress of The Sheik, as well they
might, for who knows how many people would not go
to Algeria but for The Garden of Allah and The Sheik ^
In particular I described an amiable gentleman,
and how he looked exactly like Lord Beaverbrook
might have looked if he hadn't made so much
money all by himself, a sort of rugged grandeur
being spread over features not otherwise remarkable;
and then I went on to say that of course there was
tne usual hotel Pretty Girl, and very pretty she was
too. " I do not know her yet," I wrote, " and I
probably never will, for +hey tell me — ^the barman
teUs me — that she and her mother are inclined to
be "'ather exclusive and do not mix with the other
giiosts. Be that as it may, the girl is extra-
ordinarily pretty in a slim, fascinating way which
is quite indescribable. She must be very young, for
I notice that it's only with difficulty that she
manages to repress a giggle at things her mother
says, which is really very nice of her, don't you
think? On the other hand she dresses so amazingly
well, really well, I mean, no home-made stuff, that
she simply can't be under* twenty — ^unless, of course,
her mother chooses her clothes for her, but I am
rather inclined to doubt that, her mother's clothes
being excessively county and therefore not re-
markable for chic. . . ." and so on and so on in
a friendly way fbout this and that.
When next I wrote to Ralph Trevor, which was
141
Consuelo Brown
not before I had to, he having written to me several
times about one thing and another, I mentioned
that I had, so to speak, put the lid on the exclusive
business as regards the hotel Pretty Girl and her
agreeable parent. “ Her name is Consuelo Brown,''
I wrote, “ and they live not far from Leicester. If
you ask me how in the world a girl who lives not
far from Leicester comes to be called Consuelo, I
will tell you that that is because her mother has
always admired that beautiful lady who was Miss
Consuelo Vanderbilt ; but I am only surmising that
for your benefit, for Mrs. Brown has not as yet told
me the true facts of the matter. Miss Brown is
English and American in equal parts, her lS,te
father having been an American Admiral. If he
was anything like his daughter he must have been
a very pretty Admiral.
“ By the way, I was quite wrong about Miss
Brown's age, she turns out to be only eighteen !
And when she talks I can quite believe it, not that
she is at all silly or giggly — she still deliciously
represses the giggly part — ^but because she prefaces
a good many of her remarks with an ‘‘ Oh ! " which
sounds exactly as though she had just eaten a
piece of Turkish Delight and had liked it rather
a lot. I met her at a dance given at the hotel
the other night. A Gala Bal, they called it. A
Soir6e de Gala. Well, I wandered into the Gala Bal,
and saw her sitting in a far comer^th her mother,
looking very absent-minded, I thought ; and well
142
Consuelo Brown
she might, for the difference between a Gala Bal
and a common-or-garden Bal is that five hundred
people are shoved on to a floor made to hold fifty ;
and so I sidled across the floor, made my bow and
formed words indicative of a pressing desire to
dance with her, all of which went quite well. It
went even better, when, just as we were about to
take the floor, I asked her ‘ whether she preferred
to be held by the spine or the liver ? ' at which she
suddenly gave such a laugh that various French-
women looked for the first time away from her
clothes to her face, which was a very agreeable
contrast to theirs, they having used powder and
what-nots to excess in honour of the Gala BaL
“ I suppose you know what a French hotel
orchestra is like at playing dance music ? It is
very good as an orchestra over meals, very classical
and all that, but what is the use of a fox-trot without
saxophones and drums and little tiddley-bits here
and there ? One has to be a little mad to dance
a fox-trot, a little mad or a little drunk, but one
can't be a little mad to the polite strains of an
orchestra lead by a chef dlorchestre, which every now
and then dries up completely to give the first violin
a chance to be a first violin.
‘‘So we gave up dancing after a while — we had
to, anyhow, for the Gala Balists began dancing in
open formation — and I lured her out on to the
terrace with a ff omise of a lemon-squash : which,
however, turned out to be an orangeade— two
143
Consuelo Brown
straws and a lump of ice, you know — but she
seemed to enjoy it none the less for that. Did she
like orangeade ? Oh, yes, she liked orangeade
frightfully. Then what to say ? I asked her if she
liked dancing.
“ ‘ Oh, yes ! ' she said veiy softly. ‘ Why, what
else is there ! *
Well, when one comes to think of it, there
doesn't really seem to be very much else, and so
that was that. Later on, however, there turned
out to be ski-ing. Oh, yes, she liked ski-ing. Danc-
ing and ski-ing. . . . And, somehow or other, she
asked me what I was, and I said ‘ Nothing,' which
is a good deal truer than I hke to think. But she
said in her soft, brown way : ‘ Oh, how splendid !
for I'm nothing, too, so we can be nothing together.'
That sounded charming at the time, though now
I have written it down there looks something
the matter with it. But that girl is quite beyond
me. ...
When I was eighteen I seemed to know quite
a lot about girls of eighteen, but now I feel like a
cow when Consuelo looks at me with her brown
eyes, and my conversation with her degenerates
into asking her a series of questions, like that
dancing-ski-ing business. It is simply extraordinary,
you know, how little one seems to know about
what goes on inside girls of eighteen, and I think
something ought to be done abc5bt it. I mean,
one simply can't go on hving one's whole life knowing
144
Consuelo Brown
nothing at all about girls of eighteen but pretending
to know a whole lot about women of thirty who,
on the other hand, know a good deal less than they
think they do about chaps. This girl, though, is
not at all a typical specimen, she can't be, for (a)
she is so amazingly well-dressed, (b) she has
travelled a good deal, and (c) she ran away two years
ago from Heathfield, by the simple expedient of
climbing the school wall at six o'clock in the evening,
hailing a passing motor-lorry on the Ascot Road,
and so to London and to the home not far from
Leicester. And here she is now, like a flower out
of season among all these elderly people, who keep
on saying that they don't play bridge for money
but that a shilling-a-hundred does lend a zest to the
game. I can’t help wanting, you know, to find
out what she thinks of things now. It won't be
in the least interesting to find out what she thinks
of things when she is in her twenties, for her
fas^cinating kind of beauty — ^you want to pass
your hand over it, that kind — can't help spoiling
her, the mere daily business of refusing proposals
of marriage can’t help spoiling her — ^but now 1
Well, those brown eyes^are the devil's own barrier,
and she's so infernally simple that one has to talk
intelligibly about everything, which is a habit one
has almost gotten out of ever since one grew up
and lived among grown-up people. Do girls of
eighteen, does €onsuelo, know any^img ? I mean,
does she know an 5 d:hing of the beauties and the
145
Consuelo Brown
dirts th^t men and women do to each other in the
ordinary course of things, men and women being
what they are and Hfe being what it is ? Or does
Consuelo — she allowed me to call her that, by the
way, by pulling a face when I Miss Browned her —
does Consuelo, with her slim, brown, enchanting,
touchable loveliness, know nothing about an5rthing
hke that, does she think that young men admire
only with their eyes and that therefore life is great
fun ? Or does she want them to admire her with
something besides their eyes and their hearts and
all the nice clean things ? What does a girl of
eighteen think about when she's alone ? Was
Charles Garvice right or was Charles Garvice wron^ ?
— I am serious — ^about the inner thoughts of a much
admired girl of eighteen ? Or are they more or
less like boys ? Do girls of eighteen — ^really nice
ones, I mean, not the meretricious golden things
one sees about London ballrooms in July with a
tremendous air of having been bored at their first
Garden Party — do the really nice ones just go
fluttering on and on imtil a nasty big net domes
plump down on them, calling itself Marriage and
Womanhood and so on ? dt is all very puzzling,
I do think, and I see no reason at all for my going
on calling myself a novelist if I don't know a damn
thing about what goes on behind the brown eyes
of a girl of eighteen ! What do other writers do
when they are writing about gitls of eighteen?
I suppose they just go on making up hes like
146
Consuclo Brown
anything, and bitterly hope for the best* If it
comes to that I am a thundering good liar when
I am put to it, but I simply couldn't make up
enough to put ‘inside a girl like Consuelo with
any hope of getting away with it. No, but it's
very depressing, and me calling myself a writer.
It's all right of course, when one is dealing with
older women — on paper, I am talking about — for
no matter how many lies one makes up about them,
just to make them seem real and lifelike, some of
them are sure to be true, or as near the truth as
makes no matter. . . ."
And then, a good while later, when I had moved
from Algiers to Lagouat, which is right away in
the desert, hundreds of miles away in the desert,
Ralph Trevor wrote to me, and among other things
he asked : Why haven't you mentioned Consuelo
Brown in your last two letters ? I am quite
interested in her, and have been wondering whether
you have fallen in love with her and had your
advances rejected with contumely, which would be
a quite sufficient reason for you to have lost all
interest in her."
I wrote back rebuking him for his harsh opinion
of me and pointing out various of the less lustrous
episodes in his own career of celibacy, and then I
came to Consuelo. “ Yes, there is certainly a reason
why I ceased to mention her in my letters, but it is
not the reason fb which you have quite bestially
subscribed. There are some things one simply
147
Consuelo Brown
does not, of one’s own accord, write about, not
for any consideration, and so not even to cure you
for ever of your fatuous pessimism concerning my
character will I ever again mention the name of
Consuelo Brown. I am, as you see, in Lagouat
now, an aeroplane from Biskra dropped me here,
and here I will stay until the spring, between the
sand and the sun and the beggars. . .
But when in the spring I returned to London,
loveliest of aU towns in the spring, and I dined one
night with Ralph Trevor, he said to me, at that
period after dinner when such things are commonly
said : “ Now then, out with it, old man. The later
history of Miss Consuelo Brown, if you please.^’
Very unwillingly, I told him how one day a
young man I knew, not very well, was added to
the guests of the hotel on the hill over the bay
of Algiers. “ A pleasant young man he was, and
I was shocked at the sight of him, he was so white
and fragile. He said he had been ill of a rheunlatic
fever for a long time and was now convalescing.
“ We had met by chance on the very first day of
his arrival, and we did the ‘ Hello ! Fancy seeing
you here ! ’ business, but I fancied that his * Hello ! ’
was not so hearty as it might have been, considering
that I was one of his elder brother’s oldest friends.
We sat down, on the terrace there, just before
luncheon it was, and he seemed to be getting at
something, until finally he came out with : * Don’t
you know ? Haven’t you — ^haven’t you heard ? ’
148
Consuelo Brown
I told him I hadn't seen an English paper for weeks,
and then he sort of gasped out : ‘ Just the other
day — ^in Paris — Basil — ^Basil shot himself ! Awful,
Oh, my God, awful ! ' Your own letter telhng me
of poor Basil's suicide was to arrive that very
evening, so you can imagine how shocked I was to
hear of the ghastly thing like that — and shocked too,
at this poor boy's face, it was so livid with pain ! I
was so sorry for him that I was quite, quite silent.
Here had he, at the end of a long illness, been
ninning away from the turmoil of his elder brother's
suicide — ^and the first man he meets is one of his
brother's oldest friends ! He had somehow had to
tell me about it, the poor boy. And then there we
sat, staring down at the silent Mediterranean a mile
b' low, but the sea at noon was not more silent
tlian we were. Not until that moment had I seen
so clearly the wide, blue-white bay of Algiers, the
sea as blue as a pretty doll's eyes and the bending
coa*st dotted with white villages looking so de-
ceptively clean in the sunlit distance, and away
in the west, from the sea to the desert, the long
low ridge of the Atlas Mountains with here and
there snow-capped peakS towering up behind them,
like huge white minarets in the blue haze of the
sun . . . and then Consuelo came up the steps
between us and the sea, pretty Consuelo, so slim,
so young, so smart, and the poor boy beside
me gasped * M^ God ! ' Consuelo gave him one
white look and was gone into the hotel, and that
149
Consuelo Brown
afternoon out of the hotel and, I hope to God, out
of my life. Now, if you please, I am tired of this
tale, and if you will be a little more active with
that not very superior port, as becomes a host to
his guest, I shall be infinitely obliged. Thank you."
" But, my dear man, you have not finished the
tale ! What the devil was it all about ? "
" Yes, the devil and hell certainly had a lot to
do with it, Ralph. There was hell in that poor
boy's eyes when he saw Miss Brown and said ‘ My
God ! * You see, he loved that girl quite franti-
cally and seriously, and she came to stay with him
and his people in Hampshire so that the engage-
ment could be confirmed and all that, and early
one morning he saw her coming out of Basil's room.
A hungry girl. After that he went away without a
word, to give poor Basil his chance — you remember,
we guessed that poor Basil was in love at last, the
queer, furtive way he came by of breaking dinner-
engagements ? — and then the next thing he heard was
that the girl had broken the engagement and that
Basil had put a bullet into his silly sweet head. . . .
" Perhaps," said Ralph Trevor, " she couldn't
help it. Life is very hard for very pretty girls,
Ra3miond, Perhaps she just couldn't help it. . . ."
But I said nothing, what was the use? I had
seen that white look she gave that wretched boy,
and that white look was like a disease in the sunlight.
Lithe limbs and curling lips, laughing eyes and loose
heart — hungry girl, made to rot men.
150
The Irreproachable Conduct of a Gentleman
who once refused a Knighthood
Said Mr. Fall to Lord Tarlyon on the telephone,
one day in July :
Pleased if you'd dine with me to-night/'
Sony/' said Lord Tarlyon ; and he was sorry,
for he liked Mr. Fall very well. Promised to dine
with a man."
'' Pleased if you'd bring him along," said Mr.
Fdl.
Mr. Fall lived in Lord Brazie's house in Grosvenor
Square. (Lord Brazie, of course, lived somewhere
else* but he wouldn't have been able to live at
all if Mr. Fall had not taken his house.) As George
Tarlyon and I walked thither through the quieten-
ing streets and the dainty noises of the Town
in the evening, we spoke of Cyrus Fall; and
then a silence fell upon us, for we were meditat-
ing on millionaires of the Canadian sort. In the
last decade of the last century millionaires were
always American : in the first decade of this
century an Ausft*alian mode set in, and many a
young lady of birth was married to a fruit-farm,
I5X
The Irreproachable Conduct of ^
and many a chorus-girl decorated the bush : but
fashion, as The Taller has brilliantly put it, is
proverbially fickle, and with the war all millionaires
who were not Canadian fell into great discredit,
so that many women exchanged theirs for the
Canadian model on the first opportunity. Now of
these, the greatest was Cyrus Fall. . . .
The history of Mr. Fall and his millions is
simple. Like all Canadian millionaires he was bom
near Limerick and emigrated, with his parents,
to Canada at the age of three. For a time he was
dancing-master and chucker-out in a cabaret in
Toronto ; but, deciding that that was a discreditable
profession, bought some newspapers and edited tltem
in such an original way that he very soon became
a Force. Throughout this time he never failed to
consult his mother at every turn, and though in
doing so he sometimes made mistakes, he never
missed an opportunity of saying that a man's best
friend is his mother ; and when, at the ago of
thirty, having been a Force in Canada for some
years, he came to England, he wrote to his
mother, who of course lived in Winnipeg, every
day, saying that a man should be grateful to the
woman who gave him birth. In England Mr. Fall
went on being a millionaire until the war broke
out, when he at once became a multi-millionaire.
He was offered a knighthood for his services on the
field of finance, but humbly refused the honour in
a letter which, his newspapers said, was that of a
152
a GerUleman who once rejused a Knighthood
simple, sincere and great-hearted man and should
be a historic model for all letters refusing knight-
hoods. Later on he refused a baronetcy in the
same simple and sincere way, excusing liimself to
his friends on the grounds that his mother wouldn't
like him making a guy of himself ; and when some
one said that Canadians can't be choosers Mr. Fall
biffed him one. About the time when George
Tarlyon and I were going to dine with him he was
said to be about to accept a barony, excusing
himself on the ground that he was getting too old
for letter-writing. Mr, Fall had not married.
II
I had never actually met Mr. Fall, but when we
did meet he said he was pleased to know me, so
that was all right.
"''You will, of course, have a cocktail," he said.
" Of course," we said.
“ My own particular make," Mr. Fall told us.
“ Instead of shaking them I stir them with a
shagreen shoe-hom steeped in Chartreuse."
" Perfect it is," I assured him.
With the cocktails were caviare sandwiches.
They go together very well," said George
Tarlyon. When they had gone, we dined.
Somewhere ne%r us, but not in the room, sang
a ukelele : near enough to be enjoyed, far enough
153
The Irreproachable Conduct oj^
pot to distract, a gentle noise, a mezzotint noise,
unrecognisable and remote.
And then in the fullness of time, the table was
cleared, and there was coffee.
“ You will like the brandy," said Mr. Fall, as
Tarlyon hesitated on the butler’s question. We
hked the brandy very much.
" Leave it," said Mr. Fall ; and the butler
left us.
" It’s like this," he began ; and he put both
elbows on the table, and in one hand he waved a
cigar and with the other he caressed his chin.
Seriously he glanced from one to the other of us ;
he was a man with a courteous eye.
" It’s like this," Mr. Fall addressed Tarlyon.
" I asked you to dinner. Lord Tarlyon, not only
because of the very real pleasure I take in your
company, but because I want your advice — ^your
advice," said Mr. Fall, " as an Englishman of
honour. And for yours, too, Mr. Trevor, I i^all
be very much obliged. Have some brandy."
" You see," said Mr. Fall, " I am not a gentleman.
I am not even quite a gentleman. My birth and
upbringing, though they have fitted me for very
much, have not fitted me to decide on certain
matters with that clearness of vision and decision
which I find so admirable in men of breed-
mg. . . .
Tarlyon made a faint noise wffich sounded like
154
a Gentleman who once refused a Knighthood
“ To men like you,” Mr. Fall continued, " there
are not two ways of doing a thing : there is only
a right way ; and that, with you, is the instinctive
way. Whereas for me there is also the right way,
but there are other wa}^ as well, and sometimes
I find myself wandering up these other ways and
wondering if they are not quite as right as the
right way, even though they are more convenient.
In matters of policy there are two sides to every
question ; and I sometimes wonder if, in matters
of honour, there are not also two sides to every
question. . . .”
“ There are,” said George Tarlyon. “ But one
of them is a precipice. . . .”
“ Exactly, Lord Tarlyon. And that is why I
am about to put before you the case of myself
and a lady, as discreetly as possible of course, so
that you can advise me what to do — as a man of
honour. Or rather, so that you can support me in
goipg on doing what I am already doing, or encourage
me to change my course towards what, I frankly
admit, will be a happy fulfilment for me. Have
some brandy.”
Mr. Fall, in the interests of his country at war,
had frequently had occasion to voyage on board
a cruiser of His Majesty’s Fleet, and had thus
acquired that finished courtesy which presumes a
man has drunk nothing before the glass you are
offering him. *»
" I may say,” Mr. Fall continued, ” that at the
T.c.p. 155 t
The Irreproachable Conduct of
age of fifty-two I know as little about ladies as I
did when I was twenty, when I didn't know any.
Perhaps it is because I have always been a very
busy man, perhaps it is because I do not attract
them enough ”
" Or perhaps it's because you attract them too
much," Tarlyon suggested.
" Of course," Mr. Fall admitted, " one is agreeable
financially ; and a knowledge of that fact has
sometimes, I am afraid, caused me to reconsider
an invitation to dinner which the night before
had seemed full of friendship and, perhaps, possibi-
hties of a kind which I am not too old to think
romantic. However. ..." •
HI
" A little over a year ago," said Mr. Fall, " I
met the lady who is bound up in the situation, on
which I need your advice. I met her in an ordinary
way, at a ball ; and saw nothing unusual in the
meeting until the evening of the following day,
when I found to my surprise that throughout the
day she had been inhabiting that part of a man's
mental economy which is called the ‘ back-of-his-
mind.' On bringing her to the front I discovered
that I was in love with her ; and on ringing her up
was delighted to hear that she was agreeably disposed
to seeing me at her fiat, at about five o'clock any
156
a Gentleman who once refused a Knighthood
afternoon. That was a year ago, and that is as
far as I have got."
'' You mean, she has so far refused to marry
you ? " I asked.
I have not asked her, Mr. Trevor. That is the
point — I cannot ask her. With such as she, as you
can understand, the words love and marriage are
synonymous — and both, to her in particular, are
offensive. I am her friend. I do not want to be,
but I am.
" She is a lady of birth, of deep principles and
affections, which, I believe, it is the custom of the
day to find wanting in women of fashion ; and 1
find that, at the end of a year, I respect the dignity
of her mind as much as I admire that of her carriage,
Jier principles as much as her features, which are
of the kind known as classical, though indeed I
find in them every quality of romance. We were
speaking, a moment ago, of ladies to whom a rich
man is, if in no other way, financially agreeable.
With this lady, that would suffice me : I would
think myself well-rewarded to be allowed to marry
her on any terms ; but I would dare to offer her
anything but the most •trifling bric-a-brac — for not
she to accept expensive presents — as little as I
would dare to offer her my hand. I cannot even
mention marriage to her, because of the damn
silly thing which stands between us. Have some
brandy. ^
" Her husband had died some twelve months
157
The Irreproachable Conduct oj ^
before I met this lady, in Rome, where he was on
political business, of a sudden chill. At that time
I was also in Rome ; and though I had never met
his wife, or even knew he was married, I had had a
fairly long acquaintance with him, which had begun
in the early days of the war in Paris, where he was
stationed as a military officer of some consequence.
I remember he won the D.S.O. while I was there for
service at the front — ^telephone service, I gathered.
" He died of his chill within twenty-four hours,
and my business took me from Rome before his wife
could arrive. I leave you to imagine the tragedy of
her arrival in a city where, only a few years before,
she had spent the happiest weeks of her life, *her
hone3mioon, to look upon the still face of one who
had left her two weeks before in the full vigour of
youth and health. She has described it to me,
not as a whole but in those disjointed pieces with
which a sensitive mind can make a figure of tragedy
vivid to a sympathetic listener, and I can se^ the
thing so clearly that I feel it as a personal loss. . . .'*
“ And so," Mr. Fall added grimly, “ it is. It
seems that, on the night I met her at the ball, she
had discovered my acquaiiitance with her dead
husband ; and it was that fact which had made her
so agreeably disposed to allowing me to call on her,
for hers was that kind of breeding — rare, I am given
to understand, in these days — ^which is not usually
approachable by a slight acquaintance on the tele-
phone. I am quite assured, in spite of her very
158
a Gentleman who once refusea a Knighthood
\
courteous assertions to the contrary, that we woiild
never have become friends hut for my having known
her husband ; and I, of course, was at first only
too pleased to have chanced on a link which gave
her a certain degree of pleasure in my person and
company — for both, I have since discovered, were
at first devoid of any other interest for her. Very
early in our friendship I found that she had loved
her husband as few men are fortunate enough to be
loved ; and in this love had been contained a
respect which I can only describe as religious. It
was not the qualities of his mind, which were
gentlemanly but scarcely above the commonplace,
but those of his heart, which had held such a high
place in her love ; and which, now that he was
dead, reigned in her mind to the exclusion — I
speak literally. Lord Tarlyon — of every other
interest and affection. She had not loved him
enough, she said. She ought, she insisted, to have
rt^ognised more deeply his regard for and constancy
to her ; and she ought certainly to have insisted on
accompanying him to Rome when, perhaps, under
her care, he might not have caught that fatal chill.
She persuaded herself that she had neglected one
whose every thought, whose whole life, was bound
up in hers, a great gentleman whose fidelity to her,
one of four daughters of an impoverished house,
had merited the most utter devotion ; and whose
memory she coifldn't but hold in the highest esteem,
to the exclusion of every petty circumstance which
159
The Irreproachable Conduct of
might invade the life of a woman who was still
young and, perhaps, not unattractive. Have
some brandy.
“ I need scarcely tell you, who are men of the
world, that a lady so devoted, so consistent, is rare,
and must undoubtedly possess qualities of mind
and heart deserving a man*s highest respect.
Perhaps, however, I carried this respect business
too far when, at that beginning, and in the natural
flow of conversation about sonfe one whose memory
was so admirably dear to her, I helped to feed her
illusion about her husband ; but I was aware only
of the present moment, and wished — and who,
being human, would not ? — ^to make myself agree-
able enough for her to wish to see me again. For
my success in that little intrigue I am now being
sufficiently punished. In me, Mr. Trevor, and you,
Lord Tarlyon, you may see at the present moment
a man undergoing heavy punishment for the pettiest
of all crimes, the crime of thoughtless kindness.
I am now suffering for my lies, for I told more lies
about that dead husband than you could believe pos-
sible in a man whose imagination has hitherto been
considered financial rather than fanciful. I had, you
understand, been so deeply impressed by her belief
in the love and fidelity of her dead husband, had
been so moved by the naive illusions of a lady who,
passing her life among a generation avid for the
details of other people's infidehties, {irized constancy
above all things, that I had let myself go. It seemed,
z6o
a Gentleman who once refused a Knighthood
don’t you see, the decent thing to do ; and I, not
being well versed in the rules concerning these
matters, did it very thoroughlj^. Anyway, I could
at best only have kept my mouth shut, for cne
breath of a hint adverse to that treasured memory
would have snapped the slender cord of our friend-
ship. But I need not, in trying to anchor her
interest in me, have gone so far as I did : I need
not, just for the pleasure of seeing the tender light
in her eyes, have rashly struck out on my own
and invented magnificent Parisian situations in
which her husband’s constancy to her had been as
a shining light among the crude passions let loose
by war among even the most decent of temporarily
Celibate men. I need not have depicted him as a
man whose purity and asceticism was such as to
astonish his friends — myself, who was but human,
among them — and as one whom the fascinations
of the most lovely women left untouched, except
for a sad smile which I had frequently seen to come
on his face, as at the thought of some one inexpres-
sibly dear to him. Have some brandy.
‘‘ The man is dead ; and I wouldn’t have you
think me so wanting in*decency as to speak harshly
of a dead man. But the fact remains that that
man must have been one of the world’s biggest
liars, a liar of inconceivable genius and magnitude,
a Har beside whom Ananias would have been a
saint, Cagliostr!? a child, and Barry Lyndon a
novice. As for Casanova, I simply hate to think
i6i
The Irreproachable Conduct of
how small he would have felt beside that dear, dead,
faithful husband. I have told you how, throughout
the time I knew him, I was not even aware that
he was married ; but there was not only nothing
in his conversation, but there was less than
nothing in his behaviour, to indicate that he had
a wife in England for whose company he was
passionately longing. I may say that I have never
yet met a man who gave the appearance of passion-
ately longing for his own wife less. 1 had nothing
against him, mind you ; he was a charming bachelor,
a gay companion, and, if you will permit a small
vulgarity, could resist a pretty woman about as much
as a mouse can resist a cheese. He was certainly a
shining light among the crude passions let loose
by war ; in fact, he shone magnificently ; and a
patriotic element in me was, in a dim kind of way,
only too pleased to see him at it, for Frenchmen are
nowadays so uppish about their talents at U Sport,
what with one thing and another, that it' was
pleasant to see an Englishman learning them a
thing or two about the one which, with boxing,
they are most cocksure about. By the way, Lord
Tarlyon, I wonder if you will agree with me when
I suggest that this modem fashion among English-
women of decrying Englishmen as lovers in com-
parison to foreigners is not only getting very
tedious but is, so I heard in a discussion on the
matter with a student of my acqii&intance, entirely
without foundation in fact ?
162
a Gentleman who once rejnsed a Knighthood
“ Our^riend Trevor,” said Tarlyon, with a sombre
nod, '' has been actively engaged in propaganda
to that effect for some time : and with, I am told,
no small measure of success.”
“ I am sincerely glad to hear that, Mr. Trevor ;
for it is by the accumulation of such small cancerous
growths, perhaps scarcely significant in themselves
but considerable in their rolling together, that the
heart of an Empire is affected and its body grows
rotten. The Dominion of Canada looks to you
gentlemen of England to combat such insidious
errors, which may seem harmless enough as part
of the merry prattle of young ladies, but are, I
am persuaded, detrimental to our particular civilisa-
tion. However. ...” Mr. Fall waved aside our
I articular civilisation for the time being, and ht
another cigar. He continued :
” The fever which proved fatal to this amorous
gentleman in Rome was caused by exposure to the
treacherous chill of that city in the early hours of
the morning when, I am told, even a strong man’s
vitality is at its lowest ; and the contrast between
a warm place and the cold streets towards a hotel
is sometimes more than the human constitution
will bear. It has been my part to have had to sit
and listen to his praises by the hour, and at his
name I have had to endure seeing tears spring to
the eyes of a noble and beautiful lady. With her
I have stood by IHs grave, and on it I have emptied
the contents of Solomon's windows. I have sat
163
The Irreproachable Conduct oj
close beside her, and longed to touch licr hand,
to kiss her hair, to express even the surface of my
passion — I have known that, perhaps, in happier
circumstances, she might not have pushed away
my hand nor denied my kiss — and I have also
known that she would not allow herself for one
second to deviate from the path she had set herself,
the path of self-sacrifice to the memory of a man
who, I knew, had never spent a moment of his hfe
in thinking about her. Have some brandy.
“ It may seem strange to you, Lord Tarlyon,
and to you, Mr. Trevor, that I should confide in you
with so little restraint. But, as I told you in throw-
ing myself upon your kind attention, I lac5 the
breeding which could alone give me an instinctive
direction in such a matter. I need guidance. Lord
Tarlyon. I am in a damnable case ; and in the
last few weeks I have been seeking refuge from a
position which becomes more insupportable every
moment — and the more so, you understand, because
I can see I am not altogether distasteful to "the
lady — in wondering whether, in some recess in the
code of honour, there is no decent way out of this
damnable lie. That in particular is why, Lord
Tarlyon, I was so anxious to see you, and to put the
matter before you. Is there, for a man of honour,
no way out of a mess like this ? Is it utterly im-
possible for me to shatter her illusions about her
late — ^her extremely late, in hi? nightly habits —
husband ? Is there nothing I can do but look
164
a Genikman who once rejused a Knighthood
sulky evhcy time the man's name is mentioned ?
But I have tried that, and I am afraid she takes
it as the expression of a sympathy too deep for
words. What can I do, Lord Tarlyon ? Or perhaps
you, Mr. Trevor, can suggest some way out ? Have
some brandy."
A silence fell on us a while. At last I said :
" I'm afraid, Mr. Fall, as you have honoured
me by asking for my advice, that there seems to
be nothing you can do but what you have already
clone — ^to wait. Maybe sometime . . . she . . .
well, you know what I mean." I hope he did, for
I was by no means sure. . . .
" And you. Lord Tarlyon ? "
" Well," said George, very thoughtfully, with his
eyes somewhere on the table, " as you ask me, I
must say that your behaviour throughout seems
to me to have been irreproachable, and I respect
you enormously for it. I can't say fairer than that.
Butf" and he looked across at Mr. Fall ; and he
smiled at him a grave smile, " neither can I for the
life of me see how you can break away from the
position you are in. It seems beastly — ^but, since
you've asked my advice; I can only suggest that
you must just wait. You can't, as you have said,
shatter the illusion — ^you can't, as a man of honour.
A cad, of course, would long ago have stepped into
the breach and away with the body — I mean, booty*
Your brandy is iJJarvellous, Mr. Fall. But, as I
was saying, I can't for the life of me see that you
165
The Irreproachable Conduct oj
can do anything but just wait and l^ok sulky
whenever you get the chance. . .
" You forgive my boring you ? ” Mr. Fall
put to us sincerely.
“ It would be too cold-blooded of us to say we
have been entertained,” I began
" But,” said Tarlyon, “ we have certainly not
been bored. And I only wish we could have been
of some use ”
“ I just wanted cor-rob-or-ation,” Mr. FaU
murmured softly, sadly. ” Have some brandy.”
iv
It was past one o’clock when George Tarlyon
and I set foot again in Grosvenor Square ; we
walked up South Audley Street, and I stopped at
my door.
" Good-night, George,” I said. But Tarlyon
held my arm.
" You are coming home with me,” says he.
” Nonsense ! ” said I ; and though I was friendly,
I was firm. " There was- once a woman in a play
by Shaw who amazed five continents by the magic
words ‘ Not bloody likely.’ At this moment I am
that woman, and it is thus that I refuse your
solicitations. I have drunk brandy, and I would
sleep. Good-night, George Almertc St. George.”
But he is a very tall man, and he dragged me by
z66
a Gentleman nvko once refused a Knighthood
the arm Vowix South Audley Street, the while
crying mighty cries after the manner of one who
wants a taxi immediately ; and into one he threw
me, and the taxi hurled itself towards Belgrave
Square, where George Tarlyon lives in a house which,
together with much money, was left to him by his
wife, who died before she could make a will.
I was veiy angry, and insisted that he should
make a note of it.
“ There, there,*' he soothed me. “ All I want you
to do, Ralph, is to leer in the offing while I ring up
a lady. I do so hate to do that kind of thing
alone."
I pointed out that she couldn't be much of a
lady if he could ring her up at that unearthly hour,
he warned me to leave his friends alone, I said I
wouldn't touch them at the end of a barge-pole,
and then I composed myself to sleep. The taxi
hurled itself across Hyde Park Corner, and dreamily
I heard Tarlyon's voice :
" I am not only going to telephone a lady, but I
am going to insult a lady intolerably. And in case
my invention should run low, I want you, Ralph,
to stand by and suggest some more intolerable
insults. . .
And dreamily I heard Tarlyon's voice :
She keeps her telephone beside her bed, and
so she must answer ; and lo ! I will insult her
intolerably." **
The taxi stopped, and very soon the receiver was
167
The Irreproachable Conduct oj
to his ear, while I leered at him from 4ie depths
of an arm-chair.
'' Have some brandy," said Tarlyon, but I
sneered at him.
But what he said down the telephone, I cannot
repeat. These things should only be spoken of
privately, as between man and man. All I can do
is to give a brief outline of his speech and a
summary of the conclusions at which he arrived.
He spoke at length of her character, of which
he seemed to take an unfavourable view ; he took
grave exception to the manner of her life ; and he
begged her to hold him excused, in future, from
any closer relationship than that of a distant
acquaintance. She must have said he was drunk,
for he denied any undue excess, while reserving
to himself the right to think she was probably a
secret drinker.
He began, I thought, rather subtly : on a matter
which has been discussed between ladies arid gentle-
men ever since Solomon took a fancy to the Queen
of Sheba and put off all dinner engagements for a
week. In the gentlest way Tarlyon begged to be
excused from dining with her on the following
night. No, it was not that he had discovered a
previous engagement ; no, he couldn't say that.
The truth was, he said, that he had found something
better to do ; he hadn't, he added, had to look very
hard. He then proceeded to ^ve his reasons for
never wishing to see her again, and these he deduced
i68
a Gentleman nvho once refused a Knighthood
{a) fromWws in her character, (6) Irom fissures
in her temperament, and (c) from structural errors
in her personal appearance. He pointed out that
he was putting himself to this trouble only for her
good, and in memory of his long friendship with
her late husband, whom he had known ever since
they were at Oxford and Cambridge together.
I can only put down the fact that she did not ring-
off before she did to some fatal fascination in his
voice, which was throughout smooth and reasonable
in tone.
That woman,*' he explained, is a very clever
woman. She has the kind of brains that don't
generally go with beauty ; and if I had any political
ambitions, or any indoor ambitions of any kind,
I \vould marry her like a shot. She has been thinking
this last year that I might marry her, but Fve just
managed to keep the conversation off that. For,
though one doesn't deserve an angel, one needn't
marcy a devil. Meanwhile, however. I've grown
fond of her, and I've taken no trouble to hide
from her that I admire her enormously ; and so
she has kept me dangling for a year, doing neither
one thing or the other — indeed, why should she ?
— on the off-chance that I might marry her ; for
though Viscounts are not what they were, Ralph,
a wealthy Viscount was to her mind just pre-
ferable to a wealthy Canadian of a certain age.
And so she has ^tept poor old Cyrus Fall, who
adores her, as I've known for the last ten
169
The Irreproachable Character of
months or so, hanging on as her secc^ string,
palming ofE that ghastly lie on him about a husband
she never cared a damn about — ^she’s just kept
him hanging on, while she waited to see whether
I'd toe the line or not ; and if not . . . But Fm
rather sorry about it all, Ralph, for she is a clever
and amusing woman, and I shall miss begging her
to put off Mr. Fall to dine with me."
“ Poor old Cyrus Fall ! " I murmured. ‘‘ But
then — ^why poor ? He adores the woman — ^no
matter how cunning she is, he adores her. And so
on. . .
“ Exactly," said Tarlyon. " There are men,
Ralph, who would warn Mr. Fall against* that
woman, whereas we are throwing her into his
arms. For we, Ralph, know that no matter how
thoroughly he finds her out, as he surely will, he
will not cease to adore her ; for it is not virtue that
men and women love in each other "
Quite," said I, " Good-night."
V
A week later, there was announced in the Morning
Post, which somehow always seems to know about
these things, the engagement of Mr. Cyrus Fall to
Mrs. Leycester-Craven, widow of Major Leycester-
Craven of the . The sam^ morning Mr. Fall
rang up Lord Tarlyon.
170
a Gentleman who once rejused a Knighthood
" Pleiad if you’d take luncheon with me to-day,”
said Mr. Fall.
“ Sorry,” said Tarlyon. “ Already luncheoning.”
" Cocktail ? ”
“ Well, why not ? ”
” Ritz, one o’clock ? ”
“ Right,” said Tarlycn.
Tarlyon grasped the outstretched hand, and
wrung it.
“ Congratulations,” he murmured.
“ Thank yow,” said Mr. Fall.
Tarlyon raised his eyebrows.
“ But is the man mad ? ” he asked. “ What on
earth for ? ”
” For your advice to the lady. Lord Tarlyon,”
said Mr. Fall gently.
Tarlyon jumped in his chair, and he stared at
Cyrus Fall.
“You don’t mean to tell me that she told you ! ”
he gasped.
Oh, no ! ” Mr. FaU assured him. “ Oh, no 1
She has never mentioned your name, and I haven’t
the faintest idea of what you said to her. But I
knew that you would say something. Lord Tarlyon
— ^as a man of honour. That is why I told you of
my dilemma that night — rafter which, as a man of
honour, you could do but one thing, since my
intentions were serious and yours were not. A
cocktail ? ”
“ I’ll have some brandy, ” whispered Tarlyon.
T c.p 171 M
Salute the Cavalier
I
The Felix Waites, as every one knows, are the
most exclusive people in Hampstead. And since
the war, with its attendant new people, the family
have become so aristocratic that they can scarcely
speak, for Mrs. Felix Waite says that eveiy one talks
too much nowadays. The Felix Waites are under-
stood to spend most of their time in the country,
where they entertain only very small parties.
There was a time when they spent anxious moments
about their only son, Thomas, but all that is over
now. Once upon a time young Thomas did the
superman on them about a chorus-girl, and broke
away. Young Thomas had never fancied himself
,as an aristocrat, and so he did not marry the chorus-
girl at once ; but he said he would, and in the
meanwhile he concentrated on making money.
He was understood to be making big money — so big
that he could inhabit a suite of rooms at the Ritz
for a week, sign the bill in pencil, and get away
before the hotel clerks had rubbed the dazzle of his
sapphire tie-pin out of their eyds. But one day
young Thomas forgot to wear his tie-pin, whereupon
172
Salute the Cavalier
he adjou^kd to Brixton Prison for two days and
four hours, which he spent in trying to imagine the
expression on his father's face on hearing of his
son’s latest telegraphic address. However, Mr. Felix
Waite paid up like a gentleman, as he did everji:hing
else like a gentleman. That is the only time a Felix
Waite has ever stayed with King George, but they
do not mention it. Whether the chorus-girl became
a footlight-favourite or just faded away was never
known. Young Thomas married county.
It occurred to Mrs. Felix Waite during the
season of 1922 that she might give a garden-party
There was a something about a garden-party, a*
certain elegance which, Mrs. Felix Waite thought,
was lacking in a ball. Every one, after all, can
give a ball. Whereas, except for the King
and the Queen, very few can give a garden-party
in London, for the central idea of a garden-party
is that it be held in a garden, and gardens in London
are Yarer than the jewels on the Mikado’s brow.
Now Mrs. Felix Waite had a spacious garden ; and
about it the walls were so high that the youth of
Hampstead Heath had to stand on each other’s
shoulders to catch a glirfipse of the garden life of
the gentry.
II
The garden-parl 5 ^ was a great success. Quite
half the people who were asked came, and nearly
173
Salute the Cavalier
all the people who weren't. The fact it poured
with rain from three o'clock onwards might have
interfered with the pleasure of the company, had
not Mrs. Felix Waite been a woman of invention
and, with great presence of mind, held the garden-
party in her spacious drawing-rooms ; thereby,
some have thought, changing the garden-party
into an At Home or Afternoon Reception, but that
is a matter for argument.
Among those present was Mr. Michael Wagstaffe,
the young gentleman with the broken nose who
called himself, with perhaps too much pomp, the
cavalier of the streets ; a list of what other^people
called him might be of interest, but could have no
bearing on this story. It was not a habit with the
cavalier of the streets to go to garden-parties, or
to parties of any kind, for in London there were not
a few people who would have been pleased to meet
him just once more. However, on this occasion,
he had happened to be passing Mrs. Felix Waite's
house towards six o'clock, and, hearing music and
being thirsty, had walked in. Not long after, he
walked out. But he had not walked more than a
few yards when some one** caught his shoulder, and
an abrupt voice said :
“ Come back, you ! "
Mr. Michael Wagstaffe turned round. “ I never
drink with strangers," he said proudly.
" Come on, now," said the gnfK man impatiently.
No one can leave that house just yet. And we
174
Salute the Cavalier
want yo-^^^articularly — ^to asK you a few ques-
tions/*
A detective ! ’* sighed Mr. Wagstaffe. I knew
it ! For his clothes are very plain/*
They started back, the plain-clothes man holding
his arm. It was still raining hard — one of those
afternoons when people paid to watch it rain on a
nice new tarpaulin at the new tennis-courts at
Wimbledon.
I return under protest/* said Mr. Wagstaffe,
“though I wouldn*t object to an umbrella as
well.**
“ We know youy the plain-clothes man grinned
disagreeably. “ We know you. And Fve had my
eye on you in there — ^you weren*t invited, you
weren*t.**
They walked up the soaked red strip of carpet
into the spacious portico, through the spacious
portico into the spacious Lounge Hall, and so into a
litTle room. The garden-party, it seemed, was
still in full swing in the drawing-rooms ; there
was music, there was gaiety, but in the little room
downstairs were only the plain-clothes man and the
cavalier of the streets.* Methodically, the plain-
clothes man began to search the cavalier*s pockets.
Contentedly, the cavalier let him.
“ If it*s cigarette-cards for your children you*re
looking for,** he said, “ I*m afraid I left my collection
at home. And if it*s not cigarette-cards, what
the hell are you looking for ? **
175
Salute the Cavalier
" Diamonds/’ said the detective. with
your shoes now."
" I always was a devil for diamonds. Whose
diamond ? "
" Lady of the house lost famous diamond-ring.
Come on now, off with your shoes."
" If you are worthy enough to untie them,"
grinned Mr. Wagstaffe, and held out a wet and
rather muddy shoe. But there were no diamond-
rings in Mr. Wagstaffe's shoes.
" Good-bye," said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably.
" Au revoiry the detective grinned. He was
annoyed. " You’ll see more of me, Mr. Wagstaffe.
Call on you soon, perhaps." *
The young man turned round at the door.
" Going to search all the guests ? " he asked.
" ’Course not. But you had no right in the house.
You was loitering suspiciously." •
" Going to search the other people who came
unasked ? " asked Mr. Wagstaffe gently. ' ,
" Don’t pull any of that on me, young man,"
said the plain-clothes man. "You was the suspicious
character on the premises when the diamond-ring
was stolen, and you’ll hea^ more of it."
The cavalier of the streets advanced gently upon
the plain-clothes man, and gently he smiled upon
him.
" If you knew more of your London," said he,
" you would know that there were at least five
other suspicious characters in this house, of whom
176
Salute the Cavaliet
not moi'^than two could have been invited. And
the next time you come near me you had better
bring a posse along with you for protection, for
at one more word from you I will smite you in
such a manner that if you don't fall down
instantly I shall have to run behind you to see
what's holding you up. Good-afternoon."
As Mr. Wagstaffe emerged from the little room
into the spacious hall a young lady passed him
towards the door. She passed swiftly, intently,
and sweetly, for she was a pretty young lady.
She was dressed like a flower, a flower from a
garden sweeter than the spacious garden of Mrs.
Waite, and as she passed by the cavalier of the
streets a faint scent pierced the rain-sodden air
of the outer hall,
" Chypre," thought Mr. Wagstaffe, for it was his
business to know these things.
" Good-aftemoon," said Mr. Wagstaffe amiably ;
but the young lady, the very smart young lady,
passed him without a glance into a waiting
taxi-cab outside.
The cavalier of the streets whistled gently as
he walked away in the rain. He walked not because
he liked walking, but because he had not the price
of a taxi in the world, because the Underground
was offensive to his sensitive nerves, and because
buses bored him.
177
Salute the Cavalier
in
In an obscure but not unclean street towards
the northern fringe of Soho there is to be found by
the seeker after experience a restaurant, where
gentlemen in Mr. Wagstaffe's predicament may
dine very passably ; and, on having inscribed the
bill with their temporarily worthless signatures,
pay on some happier day. Very seldom, indeed,
had the cavalier of the streets actually fallen to
this pass ; these were his most unfortunate days ;
and not even a bottle of the Rhine wine for ^hich
M. Stutz was famous — ^for such was the name of
the polite and amiable patron of the Mont Agel
Restaurant — was, on this evening, able to support
him in the sardonic optimism with which he had
always parried the most cruel thrusts of a vagabond
destiny.
Than the year 1922 there has never been a more
dolorous year for gentlemen of enterprise, as
instance the luckless experiences of Mr. Gerald Lee
Be van and Mr. Bottomley ; and though the cavalier
of the streets was not only a gentleman of enter-
prise but also of imagination, even he could not
imagine money where money was not. Whereat
he was depressed.
But money, though naturally of the first impor-
tance in an adventurous life, was liCt the immediate
cause of Mr. Wagstaife s depression as he dallied
178
Salutr the Cavalier .
with a ^Tsel of caviare and a piece of toast
Melba, A face haunted bis memory. A lovely
face it was, mature and gracious and remote —
Ah, from him how remote ! This face (and with
it gray eyes, witty and understanding eyes) had
happened to him in the course of a most unfortunate
episode some months ago. He would never see
her again — or, rather, she would never see him.
She would look through him, the cavalier of the
streets who had blackmailed her and then repented
of his sin because of the beauty of her face and the
bravery of her voice. But he would certainly see
her, as an outcast in a wilderness may, through
the leaves and tree-trunks of his prison, just
glimpse a brilliant figure in a noble pageant ; for
the face that haunted him was of the world, and,
in these days of many illustrated journals, had
acquired an international reputation as one of the
five leading faces of Europe. Thus, it had come to
pass that the cavalier of the streets, meshed in a
hopeless admiration, nowadays found little pleasure
in his way of life ; nor did the pursuit and beguiling
of Mugs, which had been his source of income and
entertainment ever since he had acquired a taste
for it at the University of Oxford, any longer divert
him. The face of his lady love, ever haunting his
memory, deprived him of his wonted pleasure in
living dangerously. Whereat he was depressed.
I must leave England," he thought. I must
go to some foreign city and lead a quite different
179
Salute the Cavalier
life. But to leave England requires i^jjney ; and
to lead a quite different life also requires money.''
He came to a sudden decision ; made the gesture
of pajmient upon the bill, and, thanking the courtly
M. Stutz, left the restaurant, and walked swiftly
westwards through the twilight of the streets.
IV
Indifferent to all about him, the young man
strode on his way through the festive crowds that
only the most inclement weather can prevent ^from
promenading Oxford Street on a night in June.
He saw nothing, he heard nothing ; he was in a
great hurry ; and it was only as his determined
steps were brought almost to a standstill by the
great concourse of people about Oxford Circus that
his eyes found leisure to examine the placards of
the evening journals which were exhibited at 4;he
mouth of the Tube Station. Countess Divorces
Husband." Well, thought he, she couldn't very
well divorce her brother, could she ? " Famous
Diamond Stolen." Ah ! Garden Party Thief."
" £2000 Ring Stolen at Society Function." " Society
Hostess Robbed." It's almost worth it for her,
he thought cattishly, to be called a Society Hostess.
And he grinned, and, assuming a fierce expression,
which it was not difficult for hifh to do under the
angle of his dilapidated felt hat, he parted the
180
Salute the Cavalier
crowds him and went his way. Maybe it
was that tne placards had had a stimulating effect
on him, or maybe it was that he needed violent
exercise, but now he walked even more swiftly than
before, oblivious of the remarks which his arrogant
passage aroused from the leisurely promenaders.
Soon he turned into a quiet street, and from that
into another ; and came at last to a large building
which, despite the name of Lyonesse Mansions,
was a block of flats of the meaner sort. He entered
and strode up and up, until the genteel strip of
carpet on the stairway gave up all pretence of being
a genteel strip of carpet and frankly became a
drugget of the consistency of a Gruy^re cheese.
To the very top of Lyonesse Mansions strode the
cavalier of the streets, and when further progress
was barred by a mean-looking door he banged upon
that door without restraint, once, twice, thrice ;
and was then opposed by a feminine person who had
ali the attributes and mannerisms of a Slut, but
was in reality a respectable woman with a vote,
the wife of a chauffeur who lived in a neighbouring
Mews and whose comforts she increased by doing
a bit of charing here amd there. She was doing a
bit of it here at the moment, and seemed inclined
to resent any interruption on behalf of both herself
and her employer, for before he had said a word
she had snapped ** Out/' and only the dexterous
shoe of the cavillier of the streets prevented the
door from being slammed in his face.
i8i
Salute the Cavalier
** Youll get a sore throat if you snarl Jjke that/’
he advised her kindly, and pushed past her into
the narrow httle hall. Thoughtfully, he looked at
the three closed doors with which the narrow little
hall was decorated ; and, by the abstracted expres-
sion of his face, seemed to be in a place far removed
from the comments on his manners, appearance,
and antecedents, if any, which the char-lady,
having left the open doorway, poured into his ear.
Then, having thought out his thought, he strode
to the middle door and flung it open. The room
was dimly ht, which was just as well, for there was
in it but one ornament which might have r^aid
a more exact scrutiny ; and that was a girl, who,
dressed for solitude in a faded blue peignoir, her
fair hair loose about her shoulders, a copy of the
Sketch in her hands, lay negligently on a wretched
sofa. She was a pretty girl ; that has been remarked
before ; but then she had been dressed like a
flower, a flower from a garden sweeter thait the
spacious garden of Mrs. Felix Waite, and now she
was dressed like nothing at all ; and the faded
blue of her covering was stained by a flat yellow
packet of cigarettes. She was obviously no lady,
and had given up pretending she was.
You dirty beast ! How dare you come here ! ”
cried the pretty girl, amazement turning to disgust,
disgust to anger. But the cavalier of the streets,
still framed in the doorway, his^head uncovered,
only smiled at her. And in his smile there was
182
Salute the Cavalier
no hint apology for the intrusion which his
hostess seemed to resent so deeply.
Good-evening, Betty/’ said he, in a friendly
way. “Just thought I’d come and look at you,
you know. Pretty Betty ! You last remarkably
well, I must say. How are you, child ? ” And he
advanced into the room, threw his hat on a chair,
dug his hands into his pockets, and grinned at her
again ; while her eyes, pretty blue eyes hardened
by despair, stared up at him in helpless anger.
** Michael,” she said bitterly, ” you are the
world’s worst man. Why can’t you leave me alone ?
— ^my Gawd, why can’t you leave me alone ? ”
And as her voice rose, her eyes swept him in utter
contempt.
“ You poor kid, I have left you alone,” he told
her gently, wearily. The fact that the cavalier
of the streets had at one time been a gentleman
was apparent in the way he took abuse. Abuse
made him tired. ** I haven’t been near you for
years, Betty, so it’s no good your handing me any
rough stuff about ihai. ...”
His gentleness provoked her. The pretty girl
sat up in her disorder,*’ and the expression on her
face was not pretty. He smiled curiously, thinking
of a very young man up at Magdalen College and
of a very pretty girl at a flower-shop near the
station, and how the young man had loved the
pretty girl from \ distance, until one day he had
realised that the pretty girl was very willing to
183
Salute the Cavalier
be loved by him ; whereupon she got the
sack from the flower-shop, and had come up to
London for to be a chorus-girl, and in due course
the young man had forgotten her. . . .
“ Anyway/' he added, ‘‘ I didn't leave you so
stranded as that Thomas Felix Waite fellow."
Shame that the blue of the pretty girl's eyes
was so hard, so wretched and so hard. " Oh, yes,"
she sneered ; " there ain't much to choose between
you two rotten gentlemen ! " And she laughed ;
and then, because she was a girl, she sobbed. " Oh,
Christ, why've I always been so wretched ! "
He was silent for what seemed a long time. Jfer
sobs spent themselves quietly in the depths of her
self-pity, and at last he said softly : " Anyway,
Betty, you’ve got your own back on the Felix
Waite family now. You'll be able to go back to
the country, as you've always wanted to, and live
comfortably for a time. Or perhaps you'll be able
to start a little shop of some kind."
She stared at him in immense amazement, but he
was looking out of the little window. . . .
" Michael Wagstaffe," she breathed, " what the
blazes are you talking aboM ? "
" A diamond ring worth ^2000," said Michael
Wagstaffe to the window.
" Balmy ! " she jeered at him.
" Hand it over, Betty," said the cavalier of the
streets sharply. He stared dow^ her frightened,
incredulous look. " It's no good your saying you
184
Salute the Cavalter
haven’t got it, because I guessed you had when I
saw you lea’v^g the Felix Waite house this evening,
and I know you have now IVe seen your face. . .
She began shrilly, but he snapped her up. “ Now
don’t be silly, child. It’s no good your being
selfish with it because you’U never be able to get
rid of it on your own, and you’ll only get copped
if you try. I know about these things. So hand
it over and try not to look as though I was boring
you with a tale about potatoes sprouting from the
Albert Memorial. We’ll go halves on it, I’m telling
you. But you’ll have to trust me.”
She leapt up, faced him, a figure of tense fury.
” I trust you ! You poor silly cad, I trust you !
Get away from my sight before ” And she
suddenly realised that she had not denied having
the diamond-ring, that he had provoked her out-
burst, that he was laughing at her. She threw
herself down on the sofa again and fumbled in the
yeUpw packet for a cigarette.
” Clever, aren’t you ! ” she sneered.
” Only by contrast,” smiled the cavalier of the
streets. I shall have to find it myself, then ? ”
She made a move as though to spring from the
sofa, but it was only a little move, for she knew
her man, and he was standing just beside her.
** You’re just a blamed fool,” was all she said.
"" ” Don’t move, Betty,” he begged her gently.
” Please don’t mov#. Because I don’t want to have
to tie you up. All I want to do is to find that
185
Salute the Ceeoalter
diamond-ring. It’s silly of you to put me to the
trouble of having to look for it, but e-^n so I shall
give you half of whatever I get for it, for which
you must thank my late mother for the way she
brought me up." He seemed to have fallen into
a conversational vein ; he heeded not the con-
temptuous sounds with which the pretty girl
— ^now, alas ! not so pretty as she had been —
sought to disturb the even tenor of his conversation ;
and all the while his eyes were busy about the
room, a largish and dingy bed-sitting-room, the
bed being inadequately hidden in an alcove behind
a frayed green curtain.
" You see, Betty dear,” he went on, “ f have
come to a point in my life when I must have money
or bust. I am telling you this that you may know
I shall not spend half your ill-gotten gains in
riotous living. I am tired of riotous living, Betty.
I am tired of my life, I am tired of England. And
so I am going abroad, far abroad, and there I shall
make a new start — ” She tried frantically to jump
up, but he caught her wrist and held it — “ make a
new start, as I was sa3dng. You will not see me
again for a long time, Betty, and when you do,
you will see a rich and generous man, for I shall
never forget that I owe you a good turn for the
wrong I did you. But to go abroad and to begin
an entirely new life I need money. And so,” an<f
his eyes still wandered thou^tfully about the
room, “ I must find your diamond-ring, seU it for
i86
Salute the Cavalier
you, and keep half the proceeds as commis-
Sion. . . .
'' Even if it was here/’ jeered the pretty girl,
you’d never find it. You think you’re the only
clever one in the world, don’t you ? ” But there
was not much conviction in her voice.
No, I’ve always said you had brains, Betty.
You are no fool ; and I shall conduct my investiga-
tions on those premises. But don’t move — ” and
his hand fell sharply on her wrist again, while his
eyes still thoughtfully embraced every comer of
the room. Now, if you were a fool, where would
you hide a stolen diamond-ring so that your maid
would not find it ? You would hide it in a far
comer of a drawer, or under a pile of linen, or you
w luld sew it into the lining of a dress, or bury it
in a hole in the floor — ^in fact, Betty dear, if you
were a fool you would hide that diamond-ring in
some secret place which any charwoman or detective
searching this room would find at once. But you
are not a fool. Now, if you are a student of Edgar
Allen Poe, which I doubt, you will remember his
tale about a young Frenchman called Duval, or
Dupin, I forget which, •who found a purloined
letter, after the Paris police had searched in
vain for it for weeks, in the most obvious place
in the robber’s house : which was, of course, the
fetter-rack. Now what, I ask myself, is the most
obvious place in thft room in which to hide a stolen
diamond-ring ? The answer at once leaps to my
T.cp. 187 N
Salute the Cavalier
mind, my eyes wander to a dilapidated-looking
arm-chair a few yards away and fix o:^ hand-bag
which is lying in the seat thereof. It is a pretty
hand-bag, unpretentious but decorative ; and a
diamond-ring in your hand-bag would be quite
safe from the prying fingers of your maid or char-
woman for the simple reason that she has long
ago given up hoping that she will find any money
in it. But I am neither your maid nor your char-
woman, and — Oh ! She had bitten the hand that
held her wrist, and only by a very quick effort did
he restrain her from reaching the arm-chair on which
lay the hand-bag. Allow me/' he said politely,
nursing his hand. I will get it for you/' Swiftly
he got it — and the diamond-ring lay in his open palm.
AU fight had left the pretty girl ; she sat listlessly
on the sofa and gave way to her misery.
" Oh, you beast, you beast ! " she kept whispering
between dry sobs.
The cavalier of the streets stared at the stone
in his hand. It winked and glittered, a bright
white light on a dingy palm in a dingy room,
arrogantly daring the eye with its innumerable
carats. He whistled softly, in wonder. “ And
they say," he murmured, that diamonds aren't
fashionable nowadays ! "
From the diamond in his palm he looked at the
bowed head of the girl. He said harshly : ^
“ Haven't I told you I'm goMg to give you half
of what I get ? "
188
Salute the Cavalier
I don't want to sell it/' sobbed the girl.
" I got rea^ns. You wouldn't understand-—
wouldn't understand anything to do with sentiment.
You was bom without a heart, Michael Wagstafle.
When young Thomas Felix Waite loved me he
promised me that he'd get that diamond-ring from
his mother and give it to me. I didn't want it
then, nor believe him, but he went on so about it
that I came to fix my mind on it. And then one
day he left me — ^just like that, without a word.
He was a weak idiot, but I loved him~^c?w wouldn't
understand. And when he left me my mind some-
how ran on that diamond-ring he'd promised me —
I wanted it, d’you see, as I might want some money
that's owing to me. God's treated me pretty
rc>i2gh, I thought, and so He owes me that diamond-
ring just so as I can look at it now and then. And
I been thinking about it months and months, not
thinking to steal it, you know, but just wanting it.
Yow, wouldn't understand how soft a girl gets when
she’s eaten up with loneliness in a big place like
London. Why didn't you let me be at Oxford,
Michael, living with my father ? And so when I
saw this garden-party billed in the Society columns
this morning, I just thought I'd try to get in and
have a look at the diamond on her hand. I never
thought she'd be fool enough to take it off in that
(^tch-as-catch-can crowd to show to a friend,
and then lay it on Sie edge of the fight-for-a-cup-
of-tea-table to grab a cake which she could have
189
Salute the Cavalier
done well without, she being already so fat with
overfeeding. . . And for the time she
looked up at the young man, who stood above her
absently playing with the glittering toy in his hand.
She stared at him with babyish, unbelieving eyes.
Gawd, you’re a bad kind of man, Michael Wag-
staffe. You're very bad."
" You don't want to sell it, then ? " he asked
sardonically.
" I want the diamond — ^my diamond ! ” she
whispered. " Give me back my diamond-ring,
Michael Wagstaffe. It'll do for the sun you've took
from me since we met at Oxford. ..."
He smiled at her suddenly. " Here you are,
pretty Betty," he said, and held out the diamond.
But Betty was afraid ; she didn’t believe the
heau geste. Few beaux gestes had come pretty
Betty's way. " Don't play with me," she whis-
pered.
"Go on, take the damn thing. I'll swim, the
Channel.” There was no doubt about it now. She
stretched out her hand to his, to the glittering thing
in his palm ; but her hand never reached the
glittering thing. He foUowed her staring, terrified
eyes to the door behind him.
" Evening, Mr, Wagstaffe," said the plain-clothes
man with a grin ; and he fixed a delighted eye on
the glittering thing in the palm of Mr. Wagstaffe'!^
hand. " How's business with diamonds to-
night ? "
190
Ealute the Cavalier
" Rotten/' said Mr. Wagstaffe slowly. " Girl's
afraid even^o touch it."
The plain-clothes man was delighted with himself ;
he didn't hurry ; he turned to the two constables
who filled the doorway behind him. " See, boys !
There's not a thief in the world who won't take a
stolen jool to show off to his best girl. That’s why
Tve kept you chasing this smart young man all
evening — I knew he had it, but I wanted to catch
him in flagrante derehcto, which is Latin for making
a fool of himself." He possessed himself of the
ring from the young man's hand. " Sorry to have
disturbed you, miss. I didn't like doing it, but he
was such a long time in here, and he's given us the
go-by so often, that I thought I'd come up and
fetch him, as he and I are going the same way home
to-night. Come on, Mr, Wagstaffe."
The pretty girl, who had sat like a numbed thing,
stirred violently ; she opened her mouth : " But — "
“J’m glad,'’ said the cavalier sharply, " to see
that you took my advice about bringing a posse
with you. I’m coming."
" But I " began Betty, incredulously,
desperately.
" That’s all right, miss," the detective soothed
her. '' He won't be any more trouble to you for
sixteen months or so."
" Look here, I took " began Betty furiously,
as they moved to 'ttie door.
Good-night, pretty Betty," called the cavalier
191
Salute the Cavalier
of the streets. " I’m sorry about the wrong I did
you at Oxford. But I’ll do you a ^od turn one
day. . .
Betty rushed frantically towards them, but the
detective slammed the door in her face ; and through
the flimsy panels she heard the gay voice of the
cavalier of the streets :
“ Come, gentlemen, remove the body.”
192
The Shameless Behaviour of a Lord *
I
This is quite a simple story, but it is about a lord.
The lord in question was John Tiberius Vincent
de Guy, second Viscount Paramour, and he was
wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. He was,
in fact, so wealthy that Mr. Otto Kahn stood at
attention when speaking to him and Mr. John D.
Rockefeller burnt his tongue with his hot milk
at the mere mention of his name. Of course,
young Lord Paramour had not made the money
himself ; he merely decorated it. His father,
the late Watt A. Guy, will be remembered as
tl^e inventor and promoter of the Paramour
Safety Hairpin : which, it has been said, has made
a deeper impress on contemporary life than any
other invention except Beecham's Pills. It was
thought pretty decent ,of the old man that, when
one day as he lay on his death-bed the Prime
Minister dropped in to hand him a Viscounty, he
^With apologies to, I believe, Catulle Mend^. but I am not
sure, for I have not read his works. I would like to, but my
French is limited. 0%the publication of this tale in a journal,
a friend told me that the idea had already been used by Catulle
Mendte : but I have retained it, 1 am not sure why.
193
The Shameless Behaviour oj a Lord
instantly took as his title the name which had made
his miUions, and died Lord Paramour^; in which
choice some people of the meaner sort have professed
to find a particular aptness, for had not (they asked)
the most famous advertisement of the Hairpins,
that one which has for more than a decade been em-
blazoned in coloured lights across the eastern end
of Piccadilly Circus and has raised advertisement
to the majesty of an institution — ^had not those
letters of fire beseeched : '' Buy Paramour, Lord
of Hairpins. No Woman Should be Without ?
Whereupon, to be sure, no woman was.
Of young Lord Paramour it must be said that
he was a gentleman of spirit ; the war ^ounu
him no laggard ; but he was not ambitious in the
arts of peace. It pained some of his most worthy
friends to see with what indomitable energy he
pursued the professions of leisure and luxury ;
that he used his immense fortune and unusual
parts — ^which it has always been the pleasure ,of
worthy persons to discern in the immensely j*ich —
to no other advantage than the decorations of his
various palaces and castles, the lavish entertainment
of his friends therein, and o^y the most unthinking
exercise of charity ; but those nearest to him were
most of all displeased at his evasion of his duty
to his line and to society, for young Lord Paramour
showed a strong disinclination to many. A pageant
of young ladies of quahty was ^passed before him
in review, but he either heeded them not or remarked,
194
The Shameless Behaviour of a hard
in a most amiable manner, on the imperfections of
line, carriage, and cosmetics which (he said) were
apparent in the most recent jjeneration of young
ladies. There were not, of course, wanting a few
ladies of determination to make a formidable
attack on his celibacy on behalf of their daughters ;
but young Lord Paramour withstood them with
what can only be called a humiliating ease.
II
The Albert Hall Ball, in aid of the Hospitals of
London, will be remembered by many people as
one of the most brilliant entertainments of the
brilliant season of 1922. But it will be remembered
by Mrs. Lyon-West — she was a New York Lyon
before she married a Hampshire West — ^for a
remarkable conversation with young Lord Paramour,
who, after dancing with her beautiful daughter,
had drifted into her box. The word “ drifted ''
is here used in its strictly nautical sense, for Lord
Paramour had not the faintest idea into whose box
he was entering. He had, after having danced
with Miss Lyon-West (whose name he did not
know, which is a grave reflection on the present
state of society) discovered a distaste for the com-
’ pany of his guests in his own box, and had wandered
to the first door h^ saw and shoved it open. Lord
Paramour was an abstemious young man, but that
195
The Shameless Behaviour oj a Lord
night he had indulged in a glass or so of wine,
wittily remarking to a friend that “ t chap can't
dance in cold blood/'
Why, good-evening. Lord Paramour ! " cried
Mrs. Lyon-West brightly.
“ Ah," said Lord Paramour. " 'Evening. Sorry,
I'm sure.'* And he proceeded to drift out of the
box again.
" But please don't go so soon. Lord Paramour !
I am delighted to see you. Only a moment ago I
was remarking how beautifully you and my daughter
were dancing together ! "
" Your daughter ? All ! " And Lord Paramour,
who couldn't for the life of him remember the
lady's name, nor where he had met her, sat down
and regarded her benevolently. " Better call her
madam," he thought to himself.
" Enchanting girl, madam. Enchanting dancer.
Enchanting lines. Enchanting everything. In
fact, madam, a very adequate girl, your daughter."
"I am so glad you like her," said Mrs? Lyon-
West brightly, Mrs. Lyon-West had a reputation
to keep up as to brightness.
"Like her, madam ! ".cried Lord Paramour.
" I like her enormously. Most girls, I find, are
rather tiresome — ^but your daughter, madam, is
most unusual. And she is witty, which is remark-
able in a girl. Please don't deny it — I distinctly
heard her say something wit4y while we were
dancing. She said, if I remember aright : ‘ The
196
The Shameless Behaviour cj a Lord
art of dancing is not to dance but to avoid other
dancers/ '<Mow that, madam, is a mot, in fact it
is a hon mot, I am very partial to a hon mot,
madam. And considering that I had just bumped
the back of her head into some ass's elbow I think
it was very apt of her. I was much impressed
by your daughter, madam."
" Of course," said Mrs. Lyon-West, " looks
aren't everything. A woman should be clever as
well as beautiful "
" Exactly," said Lord Paramour. " Exactly.
Or quite."
" She reads such a lot ! " sighed Mrs. Lyon-West.
" Well, well, there's nothing like reading," said
Lord Paramour. " Personally, I can never find
anytliing to read these days. Lot of septic
trash."
" But you are so fastidious. Lord Paramour ! "
" Oh, not at the moment, madam ! "
• " Well, then, why are you so long getting
married?" asked Mrs. Lyon- West with a bright
smile.
" Lot of trash," again sighed Lord Paramour.
" Young women very inferior these days, madam.
Always, of course, excepting your daughter."
" Don't except her. Marry her," said Mrs.
Lyon-West wittily.
" Not bad, that ! " chuckled Lord Paramour.
" But not good, either. Would she, d'you think,
consider my advances favourably ? '*
197
The Shameless Behaviour oj a Lord
Mrs. Lyon-West thought she would, and Lord
Paramour sighed. i
'' Shall I tell you," he put to her, something
that I have never told any one else ? Shall I tell
you why I have never married and why I cannot
marry your daughter, enchanting though she is ?
Are you sure you will not be offended ? "
'' Tell me," said Mrs. Lyon-West. Oh, please
tell me ! " She had not dreamed of getting so far.
" Well, it*s like this," began Lord Paramour
sadly. " But I must put it delicately. If you
have read or seen Trilby , you will remember that
the three artist fellows were terribly upset on
hearing that Trilby had sat to another artist fellow
for the ‘ altogether.' You get my meaning, madam ?
You are not offended ? "
Mrs. Lyon-West said she did and she wasn't.
** Well, then, it's like this. I am, madam, in-
capable, constitutionally, physically, and mentally
incapable of marrying any one whom I have npt
seen in the ' altogether ' "
" Sir," said Mrs. Lyon-West, " how dare you ? "
" That's just the point," sighed Lord Paramour.
" I daren't. And that's w.hy I can't marry any
one." He rose, saying sadly : " I knew you would
be offended. Women are odd. Good-night, madam.
Sorry, I'm sure. Enchanting girl, your daughter.
She has promised me this dance. Good-night,
madam." m
" Sir," said Mrs. Lyon-West, “ good-night."
iq8
The Shame/ess Behaviour of a Lord
III
Now a digression here on the attitude of worldly
mothers to their daughters .might be of interest,
but would not further this story. Let it suffice,
in the chronicle of the shameless behaviour of
young Lord Paramour, to say that Mrs. Lyon-
West was a mother after the Roman model, and
exacted from her offspring no less than abject
obedience in all matters which might obtain to her
welfare ; in which she was helped by the fact that
her beautiful daughter, in the days following the
Albert HaU Ball, showed a pleasing inclination
for the company of the witty and elegant Lord
Paramour. Whereupon Mrs. Lyon-West asked him
down to the Lyon-West place for the week-end.
The omission of Mr. Lyon- West from this story
may seem marked ; and if we are going down there
vith Lord Paramour politeness demands a glance
at him. Meet Mr. Lyon-West. He is a little
gentleman with an amiable eye and a hard and
soft tennis court on his head. He does not matter
very much.
Among the other guests at the house-party, as
they revealed themselves after dinner on Saturday
night, were Lord Pro and Lady Con — who, as of
course you know, is a Beaver in her own right.
That amiable baaonet. Sir Courtenay Langouste,
sat in a secluded comer reading the 68th edition
199
The Shameless Behaviour of a Lord
of If Winter Comes, while his lady near-by cut the
pages of the 69th edition. Major General Sir
Auction Bridges was with Mr. Soda, hotly contesting
Mr. Soda’s theory that hiccups was an infectious
disease and could be prevented by inoculation.
Lady Savoury, our first female M.P. and a great
Improver, went about from group to group,
indignantly remarking that it served Oscar Wilde
right if only for saying that work is the curse of
our drinking classes. Mrs. Custard, on the other
hand, retired early, complaining that she was
very short of long gloves.
During a break in the conversation, which was
witty and sustained. Lord Paramour was understood
to say that he would not be going to divine service
the next day ; and his hostess was obliging enough
to say that, in that case, she too would not go to
the morning service, but would walk Lord Paramour
round the grounds ; which would, she said, repay
an early morning visit. Miss Lyon-West \^s
understood to say that she came to the country
for rest.
As, next morning, the countryside sweetly echoed
with the songs of birds and church-bells, Lord
Paramour and his hostess stepped out of the house
upon the velvet sward. The broad sweep of park
and woodland lay before them, soft and mellow in
the haze of the morning sun, and Lord Paramour
suggested a brisk walk, but Mrs.JLyon-West begged
to be excused, saying she was enamoured of her
200
The Shameless Behaviour of a Lord
rose garden ; in which direction, skirting the
spacious ho^se, they leisurely betook themselves,
talking of this and that in an elegant way.
'' Penelope,” said Mrs. Lyon-West — ^for such was
her daughter's name : ‘‘ Penelope loves gardens.
Especially rose gardens.”
'' Indeed,” said Lord Paramour. '' Well, there's
nothing like a rose garden.”
Kow I agree with you ! ” said Mrs. Lyon-West
brightly. ” Penelope, however, carries it almost
to an infatuation.”
” 'Pon my word ! ” said Lord Paramour.
” Yes, Lord Paramour. During the rose season,
for instance, she insists on occupying a suite on the
ground floor, from which she can at any moment
step out and bathe herself in the beauty of the
flowers. ...”
You turn a phrase very prettily, madam.”
” Oh, thank you. Lord Paramour,” breathed Mrs.
Lypn-West. ” But, as you will understand, her
occupying a bedroom and a bathroom just there
makes things just a leetle awkward. For she
insists on having her blinds drawn open, that she
may enjoy the roses over her toilet, and so of course
the gardeners cannot enter the rose garden during
the morning, as it distracts them from their
work.”
” Lazy dogs ! ” cried Lord Paramour.
” Ah, here it is !^' cried his hostess as, rounding
an angle of the house, they came upon the rose
201
The Shameless Behaviour oj a Lord
garden. “ It is supposed to be the best rose garden
in the country/* ^
Enchanting,** said Lord Paramour. En-
chanting, considering the gardeners do no work in
it in the mornings.**
Oh, there*s Niblick, the agent ! ** cried Mrs.
Lyon-West. I must speak to him for a moment.
Do excuse me a moment. Lord Paramour. I will
be back in one moment.**
Lord Paramour, of course, excused her ; and
very pleasantly whiled away twenty minutes with
a cigarette in the rose garden. He paced about . . .
He saw the roses ... He saw a rose in particular,
a white one. ... *
IV
The day passed in elegant conversation, as is the
way with the landed gentry all the world over.
Lord Paramour and Miss Lyon-West, beautiful
in vermilion organdie, went for a walk in the
afternoon ; but on their return Mrs. Lyon-West
observed on her daughter*^ cheeks none of those
signs of pretty confusion which denote a happy
consummation ; they were still the pale cheeks of
a young lady of fashion ; they were unmantled.
Now it has frequently been said of Mrs. Lyon-
West that she is indiscreet ; bqj; never that she is
not brave.
202
2 he Shameless Behaviour oj a Lord
That night, when the gentlemen had joined the
ladies, and Mrs. Custard had retired, saying she
had to go to Paris early in the morning as she was
very short of long gloves, Mrs. Lyon- West addressed
herself to Lord Paramour brightly :
** I hope,** she said, that you enjoyed your
walk in the rose garden ? **
“ Enchanting ! ** said Lord Paramour. ‘‘ En-
chanting,’*
“ I’m so glad you liked it,** breathed Mrs. Lyon-
West ; and she looked at him steadfastly, the
brave woman. Well, Lord Paramour ? **
“ Ah,** said Lord Paramour thoughtfully.
She created a diversion by requiring a light for
her cigarette, which Mr. Soda, with his well-known
^alantcrie, instantly supplied.
‘‘ The only thing Fm not sure about,** whispered
Lord Paramour, “ is whether I like her nose. Sony,
Fm sure.**
T.C.P.
203
The Loquacious Lady oj Lansdowne
Passage
This is a story about my friend George Tarlyon,
who is a brave man and no bigger liar than most.
Of course, George Tarlyon ought to know better
than to be afraid of walking through Lansdowne
Passage at night. But you can tell him that until
you are blue in the face and he will smile ^at you
and agree with you, but still he will not walk through
Lansdowne Passage at night, saying that he is
afraid. And when you ask him of what he is afraid,
he will smile a shameless smile and reply that he
gives Lansdowne Passage a miss because he is
afraid of meeting a woman in it. At that you will
at once express impatience, disbelief, and disgust,
for on no female occasion whatsoever will you
have noticed upon George Tarlyon's brow that
cold sweat which denotes a decent bashfulness in
a man. And then, maybe, you will jeer at George
Tarlyon, forgetting for a moment that he is a head
taller than any quick-tempered man should be,
and thinking to goad him into revelation of the^
reason or reasons why he, a noted warrior on many
fields from Ranelagh to Vimy Ridge, should be
afraid of meeting a woman in Lansdowne Passage.
204
"Loquacious Lady of Lansdowne Passage
And maybe George Tarlyon will tell you, and
maybe he \#iU not.
In these days of easy travelling and tourist
facilities it need scarcely be explained that Lans-
downe Passage is a narrow path between two high
walls ; and that this path is carved between the
princely domains of Devonshire House and Lans-
downe House. Men speak of a time when, midway
through the passage, they had every now and
then to pass under a light wooden bridge which
had overnight been thrown from the top of one
high wall to the other, and how it seemed to them
pleasant to think that perhaps the Marquess of
Lansdowne was going to step across to visit the
Duke of Devonshire that day. But nothing like
that happens nowadays, for Devonshire House
emptily awaits its destiny and Lansdowne House
is held in fief by a distinguished stranger. But
there is still something feudal about Lansdowne
Passage, for it is a private right-of-way, and on
one day every year Lord Lansdowne sends his men
to lock and bolt the doors at each end of the passage,
as it is his right to do, for the only way a man has
of showing that a passage is his passage is by keeping
every one else out of it for one day every year, the
date to be left to his discretion. Through Lans-
downe Passage, on 364 days of the year, the
pedestrian (or two pedestrians abreast, but not
more than two, fdr you can't have everything)
can walk direct from Curzon Street to Berkeley
205
The Loquacious Lady
Street, and thus save himself an endless amount
of walking round by Piccadilly or BerlCeley Square.
Mention must also be made of an old man who, on
364 days of the year, wanders about the passage
with a broom, or sometimes leans the broom against
the wall and sits down on the upturned end of a
narrow wooden box, which he brings with him
every morning for that purpose ; but he doesn't
really have very much time for sitting on his box,
for all autumn he sweeps away at the leaves,
happily without effect, and for the rest of the
year you cannot drop a piece of paper, orange-peel,
or cigarette-end without having it swept ay'ay at
once ; and all the year round he gives you greeting
as you pass, in a friendly way.
Now, one night in May, a year after the world
was said to be at peace, George Tarlyon had reason
to be walking in a westerly direction from Dover
Street ; down Hay Hill he went, and down the
covered stairway from Berkeley Street into Lans-
downe Passage. The hour was very late, the night
pleasantly dark and cool, and the stillness of a
sleeping city broken only by the cameo noises of
the narrow hours. His steps rang gaily between the
high walls of the passage, echoes carelessly tossing
themselves from one wall to the other, round and
about and every way, and he was almost half-way ,
through before he realised that he was sharing
the passage with another : a^ woman just ahead
of him, walking slowly in his direction, but scarcely
206
of Lansdown^ Passage
walking, loitering against the wall, a self-effacing
woman of i^e night. George Tarlyon passed her,
and about her face he was not at all curious. A
word followed him, a shy word, but he strode on,
two steps, three steps — and then another word
followed him, louder, and he swung round, not
very amiably.
Now the words which women of the night cast
into the night as a lure for passing men are few,
and their expression limited ; and many had been
cast to George Tarlyon in passing but never had
he chosen one, for that kind of thing did not amuse
him, and he was quite popular enough in his own
circle. But My dear ! this woman had cried
at his back, softly, not at all insinuatingly : a
ladylike voice, without glitter or suggestion, just
appealing ; and it somehow caught the drum of
George Tarlyon's ear, the gentle ‘‘ my dear,*' and
he swung round to it.
“ Well ? ” asked George Tarlyon, not very
amiably. But he made a gesture towards his hat,
which is more than most men do on the casual
occasion.
She softly came towg.rds him, and stood a long
way below him, for she was a short, slight woman :
of about middle years, and of the middle sort, plain
featured and dressed unnoticeably : veiy'^ quiet and
ladylike she was. From one hand hung a bag, just
a little larger than^hose called hand-bags, and full-
looking, as might be that of a sempstress or
207
The Loquacious Lady
governess who is absent from her home all day.
The little lady smiled, without lure. .
“ Well ? ” asked George Tarlyon again, not very
amiably.
“ It’s only,” said the little lady, " that I am
afraid to walk alone through this passage, and would
be verjr grateful if you would allow me to walk
with you as far as the Curzon Street end.” Very
quiet and ladylike she was.
" Why, of course,” said George Tarlyon, politely
enough, and more or less dismissed the thing with
a swing round. But the little lady walked as
slowly with him as she had without him, and he
had to accommodate his step to hers.
" But if you’re afraid,” George Tarlyon just
thought to ask, “ aren’t you even more afraid of
addressing a stranger, who might do a little lady
some harm in a lonely place like this ? ”
The little lady smiled gently.
“ I saw your face as you passed,” she said. “ Ypu
might be dangerous to a lady in a drawing-room
but not in Lansdowne Passage. UiUike some men
I know. . . .”
They were walking very slowly, and still had
almost half of the passage to go, but George Tarlyon
did not say “ Hurry up, little lady,” thinking she ’
was a pathetic little thing, more than usually
pathetic of her kind. But he was not interested in
her, and it was only out of 4>ohteness that he
asked :
208
of Lansdowne Passage
** Have you had trouble with one or two, then ? **
With o^e/* she told him softly. She was so
small, and he so tall, that her voice seemed to float
up to him from somewhere about his knees. He
scarcely hstened to it. To tell the truth, he was
rather tired. With one,"' she repeated. That
is why I am afraid of walking through heie by
myself at night. It happened many years ago,
but every detail is still very clear to me.''
He must have frightened you a good deal,''
said George Tarlyon. Not that he was interested.
“ I wouldn't say that," said the little lady gently.
" But it was certainly the most important thing
that has ever happened in my life. You see, sir,
I had to get three pounds that night. I had already
made two pounds, for that is all I have ever
dared to ask, though sometimes the kinder gentle-
men have given me more, but that night I had
to make three pounds more, for five pounds a
week was the rent of my rooms and already
overdue sometime. ..." The gentle voice ran
on, floating up to him from somewhere about his
knee, and he scarcely listened. They were quite
near the Curzon Street end now, and the words
floated upwards quicker. . . .
" Just about where you passed me, I spoke to
him — in the passage here. He was a short man, and
not a gentleman, but I needed three pounds badly
and nowadays yoi^never know who has money and
who hasn't, do you ? But as soon as he answered
209
The Loquacious Lady
and looked at me I knew I had made a mistake,
but there's no use being rude, and so^ walked on
with him. He said something about the coolness
of the weather, but although I kept my eyes in
front of me, not liking the look of him, you see, I
knew very well that he was taking me in sideways.
There's no use being silly, I told myself, but I did
wish I hadn't got my two pounds in my bag or that
some one else would come into the passage, though
there’s generally little chance of that at this hour
of night, unless it's a policeman to smoke a cigarette.
And so I hurried on as quick as I could to get to
Curzon Street, and we weren't more than half-way
through this passage then, but he got hold^of nxy
arm and stopped me quick enough. I didn't look
at his eyes, for I'd seen them once, you see, but I
heard him asking for money, as I knew he would.
And then he got hold of my bag by the strap, but
I held on tight, saying there was naught in it but
powder and a handkerchief, but still not looking
at his eyes for I knew their kind well enough. But
he held on, and said he would give me some cocaine,
‘ snow ' he called it, if I let him have money, and
with his other hand he fumbled in his pocket.
* I'll scream,' I said, and at that he let go of my bag
quick enough, so I could hurry on to Curzon Street.
He dropped back then, but I was in such a state
to get to Curzon Street that I couldn't hear him
behind me for the beating of my Jieart. But behind
me he must have been, for I'd just got to within
210
of Lamdowne Passage
a yard — ^why, we’re at the spot now, I have been
slow in telling ! — ^when from behind his hand clapped
me over the mouth, and I heard his breathing very
hoarse at my neck, and then a sharp funny pain in
the shoulder-blade took me. As sharp as a knife,
they say, but this was a knife, and ever so sharp
in the shoulder-blade it was — ^but it didn’t hurt
so much as feel funny, if you understand, and
everything was so mixed up — ^his breatliing, and
the funny feeling in the shoulder-blade, and some-
where a clock striking once, but I went off before
it struck again, for it must have been on three
o’clock. I never thought death would be like that.’'
And George Tarlyon looked for the little lady
and he saw only the wall, and George Tarlyon ran
headlong out of Lansdowne Passage, and as he ran
he heard a clock strike the last two notes of three
o’clock.
2II
The Smell in the Library
I
One night we were at a party, George Tarlyon and
I, and there were also present some other people.
It was not, however, a good party, and we left it
before eleven o’clock. I cannot remember now
how it was that one had gone there so early, but
anyway it is of no significance. As we pa^ed cut,
a misguided fellow said it would get better later
on, but I extracted him from Tarlyon’s teeth, and
so out into the street. A long string of cars stretched
from the door towards Park Lane, and here and
there chauffeurs stood in sombre groups, and we
wondered if they thought they were missing any-
thing. The heat of the crowded rooms had put
us in a fever, the night air penetrated our flimsy
evening-coats, and we shivered and murmured.
From the open windows of the house we had left there
followed us down the len^h of Green Street that
asinine blare which is the punishment of England
for having lost America ; and George Tarlyon
muttered that there ought to be a law to prevent"
people from giving fat-headed |)^ies full of crashing
bores and plain women, the joints of whose knees
212
The Smell in the Ubrary
cracked in trying any dance which their mothers
had not darjjjed before them. I tried to soothe
him and myself by saying that parties were not
what they were and there it was ; but he would
not be soothed, for he had been given a glass of
cider-cup in mistake for champagne, and he who
touches cider-cup in the watches of the night mav
neither forget nor forgive.
We walked up Park Lane aimlessly, for we knew
not what to do nor whither to go. We were further
elated by the fact that we could sum up only one
cigarette between us.
I suggested that one might do worse than go to
bed, but Tarlyon said it was too early for that. It is
never too early,'' I said morosely, to go to bed."
" Pah ! " said Tarlyon, and so we walked down
Park Lane.
Now it is frequently said that Park Lane is full
of Jews, but very few met our eyes, and they might
cjuije well have been Gentiles. There are many
illusions prevalent in the provinces about life in
the great metropolis of London : such as (a) that
it is gay : (6) that it is wicked : (c) that boys will
be boys : {d) that there is plenty to do when it
rains ; (e) that you have only to go for a walk to
see many " well-dressed women in costly furs " ;
but the one which has even less foundation in fact
than any of these is that, life in a great city being
what it is, there is n^ver an hour of the twenty-four
when the great streets are not, to a student of life,
213
The Smell in the Library
full of matter for observation. But, as George
Tarlyon said, you might be a studei^ of life until
you burst and still find no matter for observation
— ^though here we were in Park Lane and the hour
not yet eleven !
The whole thing is a ramp,” we said. ” Now
take this matter about the Jews. We have been
distinctly given to understand that this Lane is
full of Jews — ^but what do we see ? Two 'buses
and a policeman. But that leads us to an interesting
speculation : can a pohceman be a Jew ? Has such
a thing as a Jewish policeman ever been seen or
heard of ? And if not, what is it that prevents a
policeman from being a Jew ? Is the feligiuus
feeling among policemen stronger than that among
Privy Councillors ? ”
Let's ask him,” I suggested. The policeman
was decorating the comer of Upper Brook Street.
Tarlyon asked him, and the policeman said that
Vine Street was not so far off as all that, while as
for Marlborough Street, it was even nearer. He
wasn't there to be accosted, he wasn't, said the
policeman wickedly.
” Ho ! ” said Tarlyon. “ And have you been
arresttng any more respectable old clergymen in
Hyde Park for talking to women without an
introduction from a bishop ? Blast me but I
wouldn't dream of entering Hyde Park nowadays,
not at night anyway, without ^ battalion of chaps
fringed with torpedo-netting.”
214
Tke Sm^ll in the Library
Good-night, constable," I said hurriedly.
Good-nigiit, sir, ’ said he — a discreet man.
Pah ! " said Tarlyon.
We walked up Park Lane.
And suddenly Tarlyon gripped my arm, and
waved his stick and whispered —
" Look at that ! Ralph, just look at that ! "
Ten yards or so ahead of us loomed the back of
a giant. He was striding on with huge steps, a
black cloak was flung about him, and he wore no
hat. Maybe it was the cloak, swaying this way
and that, and one end flapping over a shoulder,
that made the man seem taller than he really was —
but it was a colossal back.
" It's reminiscent," Tarlyon murmured. " I
can't help a feeling about that back — it's reminis-
cent."
" It's reminiscent," I whispered, " of a back I
once lent money to. One hundred pounds it
We quickened our pace. The huge figure passed
under the light of a lamp, and the light fell on his
bare head, and his hair flamed up like fire.
The huge figure, the arrogant walk, the flaming
ginger hair
" Red Antony ! " I murmured.
" And we thought he was dead ! " muttered
Tarlyon — as though Red Antony could have died
without the noise <rf his death-rattle confounding
the thunder of the guns that killed many better
215
The Smell in the Library
men ! Could a man who lived so noisily die as other
men ? And yet, because the lean years of peace
had passed without sight or sign of him, we had
believed the rumour that had had it that Sir Antony
Poole had risen to be sergeant in a Canadian storm
battalion and had then died ; which had seemed
natural in a kind of way, for the worst German
shot couldn’t, one thought, have consistently missed
six-foot-four under a crown of flaming hair.
If there was a man who did not know, or know
of, Antony Poole in the careless years before the
war, then there must have been something the
matter with his eyes or ears. For Re(^ Antony
was a famous sight in every crowded place in London,
and achieved considerable nonentity as the noisiest
and worst-tempered rascal since Fighting Fitzgerald
of the Regency. He crashed, did Antony, in furious
idiocy from row to row and roguery to roguery,
so that the day inevitably came when no decent
man or woman would be seen speaking to the man.
Oh, a calamitous pair, the brothers Poole ! For
one night his brother, the great Sir Roger, brilliant
and sardonic Roger, dark and successful Roger,
good sportsman and lovable fellow — one night our
Roger put a bullet through his head, and at the
inquest the amazed world heard that he had done
this unbelievable thing because the police were
hammering at the door with a warrant for his
arrest on a charge of fraud. This we, his friends, did
not believe. The police may have been hammering
2i6
The Smell in the Library
at the door, we said, but the police are notoriously
promiscuous I about the doors they hammer at.
Fraud be damned in connection with Roger
Poole ! — ^that is what we said. Why, he was
hne, that Roger— ! Thus we mourned him,
once the wealthiest and wittiest of our company,
and we defended his memory against the few who
dared impugn it. But the disappearance of the
red giant who was now Sir Antony Poole we did
not mourn, for from the day of the inquest, at
which he broke down and wept like a stricken child,
he had not been seen in London until this night in
Park Lane.
II
Go quietly," Tarlyon restrained me. " We*ll
Icam Red Antony to walk up Park Lane without
a hat."
Gently we approached, one on each side of the
colossal back.
" Oi 1 " we cried.
A wrench, and he faced us. We are tall, but
we were as children beneath him.
" Oi to you ! " snarled Antony. " Who the
blazes are you, an 5 rway ? " And the great red
expanse which was given to Antony for a face
surveyed us intolerantly. Never what you might
call an easy-tempeiad man. Red Antony.
" We be friends," said Tarlyon sombrely.
217
The Smell in the Library
** That’s uncommonly original of you/’ drawled
Antony. I didn’t know I had angr.” And he
pretended not to recognise us — ^for Antony must
always act, always play cussed.
'' You haven’t,” Tarlyon grinned. ” But mine
was just a manner of speaking.” He knew his
man ; and there passed over Red Antony’s face
that earthquake and tornado which was given him
for a smile and a laugh.
” Hell ! Always the same Tarlyon ! How are
you, George ? ”
” Monstrous,” says George.
” But there is no sensation in matter,”»booned
Red Antony, crushing his hand.
” And this,” said Tarlyon, waving his other
towards me, ” and this. Sir Antony, is your old
friend Ralph Wyndham Trevor, whom you may
quite well have forgotten, since you owe him a
hundred pounds.”
Another earthquake across that vast red expanse,
so that I feared for the sleep of those mythical
Jews. . . .
” Dear old Trevor — ^fancy having kept you
waiting all this time ! Here you are, man, here
you are.” And from somewhere inside his cloak
he jerked a pocket-book into my hand and crushed
it against my palm. “You can keep the change,
old boy, as you’re younger than I am and look as
though you need it. Always teke vegetables with
your meat, Trevor.”
218
Tke Smell in the Library
" I hate to take moDey from an impoverished
baronet/* I |ot in, just to goad him.
Impovenshed nothing ! ** he boomed, and swung
on Tarlyon, who backed a step. D*you remember,
George, that Roger always said I had a flair for
making money **
But he added,** Tarlyon said, that you hadn*t
got the brain of a louse to back that flair up with.*'
Boomed Antony : I have studied the ways of
lice for five years on end and must inform you,
George, that my brain, though moth-eaten, is
certainly superior. I have made mints of money.
I am fat with money. I roll in money. . . .**
He was working himself up into that state of
chronic excitement in which he might twist the
lamp-post. Breakable or twistable things had
always a fascination for Red Antony.
There, there ! *' I soothed him. “ And we
thought the little man was dead ! **
There, there ! ** said George. Did he make
money, now ! And we thought he was lying in
some forgotten foreign field with a German bullet
in his heart.”
Bother the man ! He simply had to make a
noise each time he opened his mouth. The police-
man who had talked Vine Street to us approached.
” Dead ! Me dead ! ** And the sweep of his arm
flung wide his cloak, and indeed he looked a mighty
nian of wrath. though a Prooshian bullet
could kill me ! **
T.C.P.
219
p
The Smell in the Library
“ You are no doubt reserved for a more terrible
end/' said Tarlyon. *
Blessed if the man didn't wilt ! That roaring
red giant — ^he wilted.
‘‘ Don't say that, George," he begged hoarsely.
" It's a fool remark to make, that. You didn't
mean it, did you ? " And he put the question
seriously ! We gaped at him.
" He was only being funny," I explained. " He
tries his best. . . ."
" I wish you well, Antony," said Tarlyon, out of
his surprise.
" God, I need it ! " Antony growled surprisingly.
And then I laughed — ^remembering Red Antony's
old way of acting cussed, just to surprise and annoy.
He'd do anything to make a fool of some one, that
man, even if he had to make a fool of himself in
doing it. But as I laughed, Antony looked at me
with furious, haggard eyes, and I stopped laughing.
I saw Tarlyon looking at him queerly. He knew
Antony much better than I did, for many and many
a year ago he was a junior subaltern in the mess
when Antony threw a bottle at the head of an
extremely superior officer* The bottle was full,
the aim was true, and Antony was cashiered with
all due pomp and dishonour. But, through all
his subsequent follies, Tarlyon had liked him.
One couldn't, of course, defend Antony ; but the
very few who had once liked j^ed Antony always,
somehow, went on liking him. There was something
220
The Snell in the Library
about the man, a sort of tremendous gallantry,
an air of sh^grieless bravado, a thunder of individu-
ality, which might have made him a simple and
lovable giant — but for a grain of rotten subtlety
somewhere in him. Fine timber worm-eaten,
Tarlyon said. Not, of course, said Tarlyon, that
himself was anything to write home about.
Wtiat’s the matter, old Antony ? '' Tarlyon
asked kindly. “ You've changed enormously. ...”
Now I had noticed no particular change, except,
perhaps, that handsome Antony looked his forty
years and more ; but Tarlyon knew him better.
“ How have I changed ? ” snapped Antony. He
hated kindness ; he thought he was being pitied.
” You look a bit worn, old boy, that's all,” said
George lightly.
” If it comes to that, you aren't the man you
were, what with war, wine, and women ! ”
” Talking of wine,” I thought to say, ” one
always understood that you'd die of drink, Antony.
That’s probably what George meant when he said
you looked worn.”
I wished I had kept my mouth shut. His eyes
blazed over me. . . . but he restrained himself ;
and Antony’s ” restraint ” was a portentous business
— it made a noise like a fast car with the brakes
jammed on.
” Drink ! ” he said sharply. ” I drink nothing
to speak of nowadays. There’s an end to all
things. . . Now the lion's bedside manner is
221
The Smell in the Library
a significant thing, and even more significant is it
when the lion in the fullness of his str^gth sways a
little, just a little ; and what would make Red
Antony sway just a little would be enough to put
another man under the table, and no dishonour
to the strength of his head, either.
“ I do not wish,” said Antony reasonably, “ that
you should think me irresponsible through excess
of stimulant. The things that are happening to
me are not happening through drink, and you must
bear that in mind. I am saner than a sane man,
though I can hear and see eind smell things that
a sane man would die of. ...” ,
Tarlyon looked at me meaningly. Antony seemed
to have forgotten us. Tarlyon took his arm.
“ We can’t stay here all night,” he said. " Let
us now leave Park Lane in a body and go to my
house. ...”
Antony woke up ; he threw back his head and
howled : “ Taxi ! ” •
" All right, sir, all right,” said the policeman
gently. “You don’t need to shout like that.”
That was a brave policeman.
“ I insist on shouting,” boomed Antony. “ Taxi ! '
And, thankfully, a taxi appeared from Mount
Street, for Red Antony and the police never did
mix well. He once arrested two policemen for
loitering and took them to Vine Street. . . .
Antony flung open the door# A clock began the
lengthy job of striking eleven o’clock.
222
The Smell in the Library
" We will go to my house/* said Antony. “ I
have a charming house, and an appointment to
keep in it. Jump in.** We jumped in, and we
heard him give the driver the address of a house in
Regent*s Park. How often had we not directed
taxis to that house ! Tarlyon whistled.
'' So you've got Roger's old house ! ** he murmured.
Antony did not answer. The taxi staggered
northwards as best it could.
“ I don't see,*’ snapped Antony at last, ** why you
should gape about it. Getting back to England
four months ago, I found the house empty, and
took it. It sterns natural enough."
" I never said it wasn't," Tarlyon murmured.
But he thought it wasn't, and so did I. A brother,
on coming back to civilisation after many years*
absence, does not immediately leap into the house
in which his elder brother blew his brains out —
anyway, I wouldn't.
J^lie taxi twisted through the gates, round the
littie drive, and to the great door. An odd feeling
it was, to stand again in front of that door after
nine years — ^but now we faced a house black and
still where once had beep a house of shining windows,
gay with music and the laughter of the most
brilliant company in London. Oh, the Georgians,
the magnificent young Georgians — ^mostly dead !
We told the driver to wait, and followed Antony
in. We stood stil|^in the pitch-black hall until he
should switch on the light, and in the blaze of light
223
The Smell in the Library
in which the cloaked figure faced us I instantly
understood what Tarlyon had meant when he said
that Antony had “ changed." I can only describe
the change by sa3nng that the structure of his face
seemed to have fallen into disrepair ; its brick-red
complexion of old had dwindled to a faint pink,
so that one had an idea that any ordinary face
would have been a ghastly white ; and he looked
worn with more than the usual wear of passing
years. But the wild eyes were still wild, and
uncommonly fine he looked as he faced us in the
sombre hall, the huge dandy in the black cloak
with the head of flaming hair brushed immaculately
back.
He smiled at us with that sudden charm for which
women had forgiven him much— too much ; he
flung out an arm in the grand manner.
Welcome to the old house," he said. " And for
heaven's sake try to look as though you didn't miss
Roger."
But the magic of Roger Poole was not, I thought,
in the place ; the house was now but a shell for a
noisy man.
Ill
" Champagne is indicated," said Antony ; and
that indication led us to the dining-room — a long,
oak-panelled room at the back ^f the house. The
curtains were not drawn across the two French
224
The Smell in the Library
windows, which gave out to a lawn sloping carelessly
down to thj water of Regent's Park ; and in the
second in which Antony fumbled for the electric
switch the dark shapes of the trees looked like the
van of an impenetrable forest. But dark sha|^
of trees always look more or less like that.
“ Didn't you say something about an appoint-
ment ? " Tarlyon asked vaguely, as Antony ravislied
+he wire off a bottle.
Did I ? " He looked up at us from his business,
very thoughtfully. Oh, did I ? "
“ Pop ! " said the champagne cork.
We drank, and Antouy looked at his wrist-watch.
** Damn ! " he said. " It's stopped."
“ The time being just 11.25," I helped him.
Thanks," said Antony, very mild, very thought-
ful. Excuse me a moment, will you ? " And he
strode across the room to the folding doors which
led to Roger's old library and card-room. He
closed the door behind him, but it did not catch,
swung open a few inches. No light filled the dark
vertical space.
Never known him so polite before," I muttered.
" He's absent-minded," said Tarlyon, looking
thoughtfully at the dark space.
" What I want to know," he whispered, " is what
he's doing in there in the dark ? "
" Keeping his appointment," I suggested face-
tiously. ^
Tarlyon looked from the door to me.
225
<1
The Smell in the Library
Poor devil I ” he said softly. I thought he was
pitpng me for my wit, of which I wa| never very
proud.
He put down his empty glass, dug his hands into
his pockets, and lounged to the folding-doors. I
never knew a man who could walk so casually as
Tarlyon ; you never expected him to get anywhere,
but he always got there before you expected him
to.
He kicked the slightly open door a little wider
with the tip of his shoe. I was just behind his
shoulder.
“ Antony ! ” he called softly. ,
From the light in which we stood the library
was a pit of darkness. Nothing moved in the pit.
There was no sound.
" He’s not there,” I whispered ; and I wondered
why I whispered.
" Can you smell anything ? ” a hoarse voice
suddenly asked from the darkness. .
Tarlyon lounged into the black room. But,
somehow, I did not feel called upon to. follow. I
leant against the door.
Deeply set in the darkness I could at last make
out the faintly white patch which must be Antony’s
shirt-front ; and I wondered what tomfoolery he
was up to now, asking stupid questions in a startling
voice out of a poisonously dark room. I could
smell nothing at all, and didn’t^expect to.
“ What kind of a smell ? ” Tarlyon asked — ^in a
226
The Smell in the Library
reasonable tone ! He stood just within the door,
his back townie.
Can you smell nothing at all ? '' the hoarse,
subdued voice asked again. But, of coiurse, it’s
very faint now.”
Tarlyon put up his nose and sniffed. I sniffed.
More than faint it was, I thought.
Been smoking ? ” Tarlyon asked, and he sniffed
again.
'‘No,” came a whisper.
” Oh,” said Tarlyon. This was lunatic talk, and
I was just about to say so when Antony asked
sharply :
” Why did you ask ? ”
" I thought I smelt smoke,” said Tarlyon. Might
be cigarette smoke.”
” It is,” I snapped, for I was smoking a Turkish
cigarette just behind his ear.
"You blasted fool ! ” said Antony — and with
such contempt behind it that from being bored I
got annoyed. I stretched out my hand on the
inside of the library door and switched on the light.
" Turn that out, you fool ! ” came a frantic roar,
and I had a vision of .a red giant murdering the
distance between us. I've never thanked God for
anything so much as for having directed the body
of George Tarlyon to be standing between Red
Antony and myself. I turned off the light quick
enough. ^
" Steady, Antony, steady ! ” said Tarlyon.
227
The Smell in the Library
** Oh, go to hell ! growled Antony.
I thought to myself that we coul(^'t be very
far from it at the moment. But the spell, or smell,
it seemed, was broken. I was thankful for that,
anyway.
Back in the lighted dining-room Antony emptied
his glass ; and grinned at me rather shamefacedly.
“ Sorry, old boy,** he said. I grinned back, as
though I had enjoyed it.
Tarlyon asked suddenly :
" Have you got a spare bedroom for me, Antony? *'
I stared, Antony stared. Then Antony smiled,
and never before had I seen him smile qgite like
that.
" Thank you, George,** he said, almost softly
" Now that's really a friendly action. But I'll
be all right — ^you needn't worry."
Then he addressed me as well ; I had never seen
Antony so reasonable.
“ Come to dinner here to-morrow night," Jie
begged. " Both of you. I can give you quite a
good dinner." He seemed very earnest, looking
from one to the other of us. I was going to say I
was engaged, but Tarlyon .answered quickly:
" Right, Antony." And because he looked at
me in a certain way, I let it be.
228
T/ie Smell in the Library
IV
In the taxi, at last, Tarlyon said :
** Ralph, you risked your life by turning on that
light, but you did a great service/'
What do you mean ? "
Didn't you see an5d:hing ? "
I then lost my temper.
** No," I shouted. " I neither smelt anything
in the dark nor saw anything in the light, except
that red lunatic charging at me."
" He was only preserving his illusion," Tarlyon
said mildly. " Didn't you see, in that second of
light, the open desk just by us, beside the door ? "
" I saw nothing but Antony, but quite enough
of him."
" Pity. If you had seen the desk, you would
have seen a telephone overturned on it, the receiver
hanging down, and a revolver on the floor."
This was getting serious. I struck a match and
examined '^arlyon's face. He was not smiling.
" Fact," he assured me. " You would have seen
the desk just as it was after Roger Poole had shot
himself at it."
"You don't mean "
" I mean, old boy, that Antony has gone and
put everything back exactly as he last saw it in
Roger's hbrary. Rgger, Roger's wife, Antony and
another fellow were in the dining-room. The
229
The Smell in the Library
telephone-bell rang in the library and Roger went
to answer it, telling Antony to come with him.
He didn*t turn on the light in the fibrary. The
telephone told Roger that the police were after him.
And the two in the dining-room heard Roger telling
Antony what he thought of him as a man and
brother, then they heard a shot ; and when they
got to the door and switched on the light, they
saw Roger dead at the desk and Antony standing
where he was standing to-night. Antony went out
by the window into the garden — and he has re-
constructed the scene exactly as he last saw it,
even to a dummy telephone and a revolver I In fact,
everything is there except Roger. Silly, isn't it ? "
Silly was not the word. ‘‘ But why, why ? " '
That's what I want to find out," said Tarlyon.
" Antony is playing some sort of a game with
himself, and he's frightening himself to death in
doing it . He always was a superstitious ass. Giants
usually are, somehow — ^perhaps because, having
nothing physical to fear, they fear the psychic.
I'll bet he goes into that library every pight at the
same time — Roger shot himself at about twenty-
five past eleven, by the way. Poor old Antony ! "
" But what was all that nonsense about the
smell ? " I asked.
Tarlyon did not answer. At last he said :
" Did you ever hear, Ralph, the theory that if
Judas Iscariot had not come ffter Jesus he might
have done all that Jesus did ? But as he found he
230
The Smell in the Library
could not because he was too late, he was doomed
to crime. In a sort of far-fetched way it was the
same with Roger and Antony. The tragedy of
those two brothers has something absurdly, fantasti-
cally reasonable about it. You see, Roger was a
year older and did all that Antony wanted to do,
the fine and brilliant things, while poor Antony
could do nothing but make a fool of himself, which
he did only too well. Antony would have been a
man of many accomplishments, for he's no fool,
but for the fact that Roger was before him — so
Antony thought. And Roger loved Antony, while
Antony hated and admired and feared Roger.
And at last, somehow or another, he managed to
betray Roger. No one knows what that last
moment held for those two — no one knows what
lay beliind the insults that Roger heaped on Antony
at that final moment. For they were overheard, you
know, by Roger's wife and the man who was dining
there. But something seems to have stuck in
Antony's mind and grown very big with years. I'm
rather concerned for the poor devil, Ralph. He's still
afraid of his elder brother. Or perhaps he feels
that Roger left something unsaid which he must
hear, and so he wants to recreate him."
It was as the taxi stopped at my door that Tarlyon
cried out as though he had made a discovery :
" Good God, of course ! "
" Of course whafii "
** Smoke, you fool ! It was smoke I ''
231
The Smell in the Library
V
What was our surprise, on entering the dining-
room some minutes after nine o'clock the next
evening — ^for Antony dined late — ^to see the table
laid for four ! And then a lady came in — a tall,
dark young lady, a strange and unusual lady with
a flash of very white teeth for a smile and a gardenia
alight on the wing of her sleek black hair ! I am
afraid* Tarlyon and I must have seemed very rude,
for we were so surprised that we stared. The white
teeth flashed at us. We bowed. •
** My wife," said Antony, We bowed again. She
was the sort of woman one bowed to. Antony's
wife !
Diavalen," said Antony abruptly, " this is Lord
Tarlyon and Mr. Trevor."
Diavalen — Lady Poole ! — said nothing. With
that wonderful trick of flashing those wonderful
teeth she didn't need to say anything.
“ She's a Creole," said Antony, as wq^ sat at the
table. He said it as he might have said that she
was an orange. Those white teeth flashed at me,
and I smiled back, feeling an ass. There didn't
seem much to say about her being a Creole. . . .
I don't know how Tarlyon felt about it, but it
took me some time to get my wind. " My wife,"
says Antony ! Never a worc^. nor a sign about
being married — ^to that glorious, dark, alien creature
232
The Smell in the Library
with the flashing teeth and sleek black hair !
Diavalen the Creole ! Just like Red Antony to
marry a Creble called Diavalen and then spring
her on to you with a my wife/* I remembered
Antony once saying, years and years ago : Never
give away gratuitous information, old boy/* But
there are limits. And one of them is to have a wife
with flashing teeth, a gardenia in her hair, and a
name hke Diavalen, and then tlirow her in with
the soup.
Red Antony was never what you might call a
good host : not, particularly, at the beginning of
dinner. To-night he was morose. But Tarlyon
talked — to Lady Poole. It would take more
ihan a lovely Creole to baffle Tarlyon. He seemed
to have inside information as to what were the
subjects best calculated to excite interest in a
Creole married to a morose English baronet with
ginger hair. Diavalen did not talk. But one did
not realise that she wasn*t talking, for she was
wonderfully expressive with her smiling, flashing,
teeth. She seemed to have discovered the art of
using teeth for something besides eating.
As Tarlyon talked tq her she turned her face
towards him, and of this I took advantage to stare
at her face bit by bit. The perfection of that face
was a challenge to a right-thinking man. “It is
too small,** I thought. But it was not too small.
“ It is too white,** I thought. But it was not too
white. For quite a long time I could not wrench
233
The Smell in the Library
my eyes away from those flashing teeth and scarlet
curling lips — ^they fascinated me. Her face was
white, the gardenia in her hair Iftoked almost
yellow beside the whiteness of Diavalen’s face ;
and I thought to myself that that white complexion
was a considerable achievement, for I was sure her
skin underneath was faintly, deliciously brown.
It was a small face. It was a decoration, enchanting
and Tmreal. And in the decoration were painted
in luminous paint two large black eyes ; the eye-
lashes swept over them, often she half closed them
— ^they were very lazy black eyes ; and deep in
them there was a sheen, as of a reflection of distant
fire. I did not like the lady's eyes very much, I
don't know why. But as to that sleek black hair
in which lay a gardenia like a light in silken darkness
— you felt that you simply must run your hand
over that hair to see if it was as beautifully sleek
and silky as it looked, and you v/ouldn't have
minded betting that it was. She was the x^ost
strangely lovely woman I have ever seen. And she
was the most silent.
Even Tarlyon was at last baffled by the silence
of Diavalen. A silence fejl. The teeth flashed at
me, and I was just about to say something to her
when Antony's voice hit the drum of my ear and
I dropped my fork.
“ I shouldn't trouble," said Antony. " She's
d^mb."
That is why I dropped my fork. The servant
234
The Smell in the Library
picked it up and gave me another. I made a
considerable business of it, and then I ate furiously.
Red Antony, vile Antony ! I didn't look at Tar-
lyon. He was furious, I knew. He was a man who
did not take a very liberal view of jokes like that.
But the worst of Antony was that he didn't rare
what view any one took ; he just said the first
thing that came into his great red head.
If the dinner (which was excellent as to food and
wine) had been a frost before, it was, naturally,
not a howling success after that. The only thing
to do was to pretend that Antony had not spoken.
It seemed too silly to say to the lovely Creole :
'' Oh, I'm so sorry ! " Poor Diavalen ! But I
couldn't pretend, I simply could not find anything
to say which didn't need an answer. Just try
being suddenly planted with a dumb woman and
see if conversation flows naturally from you.
Tarlyon and Antony talked about English heavy-
weigjit boxers. Antony was himself a super-
heavyweight, and seemed to have a poor opinion
of English ^heavyweights. He wanted to know
whether their weight was calculated by the noise
they made on being smitten to the ground in the
first round. He said that he was tired of opening
a newspaper only to read of the domestic history
of Famous British Boxers and of seeing photographs
of the wives, mothers and children of Famous
British Boxers. said that the whole idea of
the press was to impress on the public how gentle,
T.c.p. 235 Q
The Smell in the Library
amiable and loving Famous British Boxers were
in the home. He pointed out that the whole trouble
lay in the fact that Famous Bijitish Boxers were
too damned gentle, amiable, ar^d loving in the ring.
In fact, Antony, having put the lid on his wife,
had woken up.
Then, at last, Diavalen rose, and we rose. I
rushed to the door and held it open. Her teeth
flashed at Tarlyon, and he bowed like a courtier.
As she passed Antony, he said, Good-night,
Diavalen,*' but he said it as though he didn't care
whether her night was good or bad. As she passed
Antony she gave him a look out of Jier large,
black eyes. I was glad I did not know what that
look said, but I was sure that Antony deserved It.
Good-night, Lady Poole," I said ; teeth flashed
at me, a touch of pleasant scent hovered faintly,
and Diavalen was gone.
" Heavens, she's lovely ! " I whispered, as I
joined them at the table.
Tarlyon's fingers played with the stem of his
port-glass.
Would you mind explaining, Antony," he
asked dangerously, " why you chose that infamous
way of telling us that your wife was — ^well, not
quite like the rest of us ? " There was, I agreed,
something blasphemous about the ghastly word
dumb in relation to that lovely creature.
Red Antony leant back ii\ his chair and dug
his hands deep in his pockets, so that his white
236
The Sn,ell in the Library
shirt-front stuck out like the breast-plate of a
warrior. He looked bored.
" Favourite triclf of hers,” he explained morosely.
" Always tries to act as though she wasn’t dumb.
If you had to live with that silly pretence it would
get on your nerves, I can tell you. She does it
very well, I admit. Takes a pride in it— making
a fool of other people, I call it. On board ship
from New York she put it over quite a number of
people for a day or two. Lord, it would have got
on any one’s nerves, the way she grinned and grinned
and showed her teeth ! Why not be honest and say
one’s dumb and be done with it ? Or let me say
! There’s no crime in being dumb, especially
with a beautiful face like that. But she won’t
see it, she must smile and flash her teeth — she’s
got a repertoire of grins that would astonish a
movie star ; and she’s so proud of them that even
if she could speak she wouldn’t. And sometimes
t^t grinning and toothwork gets me so raw that
I could put back my head and howl — and she
knows it. Sprry I offended you, George. But I’m
nervy these days. I’m raw — raw ! ” He shouted
that last word at us with a thump on the table ;
and raw he looked, with the eyes blazing out of him,
and his once huge, once red, once jolly face shrunk
to a mockery of itself, with the skfai drawn tight
across his jaws and hollow in the cheeks.
Tarlyon picked up ajiqueur-glass which the thump
had upset. “ Sorry about your unhappy marriage,
237
The Smell in the Library
Antony/' he said, ‘‘ But, you know, it takes a
Napoleon to marry a beautiful Creole. How did
it happen ? " /
How ? " And Antony laughed ; at least he
made a noise which was perhaps intended to sound
like laughter. “ How ? Because she made it happen
— ^how else ? D'you think because she's dumb that
she hasn't got more fascination than a thousand
women rolled together ? Those eyes ? Met eyes
like that before, George ? If hell has a face its eyes
will be like that. I had to marry her ... In
Mexico where I went to after the Armistice. I
suppose you fellows remember that I wen4 to Mexico
three years before the war. I was in love with the
girl who became Roger's wife — inevitable, wasn't
it, that the only woman I ever loved should fall
to Roger ? He didn't do it on purpose, of course — ^it
just happened. So I went to Mexico, to try to do
something which Roger could not do before me.
Last chance kind of thing, you know — — " . fThe
rain of words faded out of him. He had moved
considerably from the subject of Diavalen, but who
could hold a haunted face like that to a subject ?
I wished I could, for I didn't want him to lun
amok about Roger. There was something — ^well,
indecent, in talking about a man dead nine years
or more as though he were alive and still wanting
to “ put it across " Antony at every turn. I wished
Tarlyon would say something, but he was silent,
his fingers fiddling with the stem of his port-glass.
' 238
T he Smell in the Library
Antony was drinking next to nothing ; round about
his coffee-cup were at least six quarter-smoked
cigarettes, aftd libw he began to maul a cigar.
I never saw him ^oke that cigar.
In Mexico,*’ Antony said softly, '' I found oil.
It was very good oil, as Roger said later, but there
wasn’t much of it. My luck again ! But I made
Roger share it this time. You remember how I
reappeared in England ? Through that window
over there, while Roger was giving a big dinner-
party, sitting where I’m sitting now. You were
here, George. Roger and I made it up before the
lot of you — after a silence of years. Entirely on
my side, the quarrel — Roger always loved me.
We made it up, you remember, George ? I wanted,
you see, to plant Roger with that oil. Gascon Oil —
it sounded like a big thing at the time. That was
the last big dinner-party Roger ever gave. He was
unhappy at home — some love misunderstanding
-ajrd he took to me, Roger did. He went head
ov^ heels into that bucket-shop. Of course he
soon saw through me and my oil — ^the man wasn’t
bom who could take Roger in — ^but he let the
company go on. He wapted to see how far /’d go.
Giving me my head, you know. He had packets
of money in reserve, and thought he could put the
thing right any moment. But he got reckless —
watching me and wondering how far I’d go. Roger
had always loved me ever since we were children —
he never thought of me but as a naughty baby with
239
The Smell in the Library
a bee in my red head about him. I could see all
the time he was wondering how far I dared go.
And he was unhappy at homei pooV Roger ; he
and his wife somehow couldn’t get their particular
ways of loving each other to work well together.
So he had nothing to do but get reckless and chuckle
over the naughty baby. I went the limit. The
bucket-shop crashed on Roger’s head. He tried
to pull up, chucked his money in, and other people’s,
but it wouldn’t save it. Clear case of dirty work.
A greasy bubble, Cascan Oil. Left a nasty mess
when it burst. And all the papers signed in Roger’s
name. Telephone rang in the next rpom while
we were in here. I was sitting where you are,
Trevor. Roger looks at me with a kind of crooked
smile. ‘ Come with me,’ he says, and I went.
Into that room, the library. Roger didn’t trouble
to switch on the hght ; the telephone was on the
desk beside the door. The police were after him,
said the man on the telephone — the police a(,fter
Sir Roger Poole, Bart., M.P., and all the rest bi it !
‘ Listen,’ says Roger. And I listened while he told
me a few things about myself. ‘ A poor husk of a
man,’ he called me. * A, graveyard of a brother
you are,’ he said. ‘ And the epitaph on your grave
will be Dolor Iral he said, for Roger was a great
Latin scholar and could lash out bits of Tacitus as
easily as a parson might give you the Bible. I thought
he was going to shoot me, I was ready for it — ^but
he’d shot himself. Roger love5 me, you know ''
240
The Smell in the Library
“ Then why the hell/* Tarlyon blazed out, did
you take this cursed house ? **
Antony ftiaullkd his cigar.
Because/* h^said with a grin, “ it just happened
that way. It was fate to find it empty — a fine,
large house like this at a low rent while all England
was yelling for houses. But I might not have
taken it if Diavalen had been against it "
“ Oh,” said Tarlyon to that.
Antony looked at his wrist-watch, and jumped
up in a mighty hurry. ” God, the time's gone I
Excuse me a moment.”
” We will not ! ** cried Tarlyon, and had his back
against the library door almost before you saw
him leave the table.
But Antony walked his way to the library door
without a word.
” Don’t, old Antony, don’t ! ” Tarlyon begged.
” Out of my way ! ” said Antony. He said it as
t^^ough he was thinking of something else, which
Antony’s most dangerous way of saying
an3^hing.
Now Red Antony was a giant, and irrespon-
sible at that. The two of us couldn’t have
held him from that library door. Tarlyon let
him pass wdth a wicked word, and has regretted
it ever since. Antony slammed the d<x>r behind
him, and we heard the twist of the key.
Without a word to me Tarlyon was at the French
window ; opened ‘^t, and disappeared. I stayed.
241
The Smell in the Library
I was extremely uncomfortable in that mad-house,
you understand. Perhaps two minutes passed,
perhaps ten. Where the devil wa^ Tarlyon ? And
then I heard through the libraiy door the thud
of something falling. And then in there a window
smashed, a sharp smash. I measured my distance
from that door and crashed my shoulder at it, and
fell into the library on top of the panel.
Light,'* said Tarlyon's voice. I switched it on.
On the floor between us was a heap of a man face
downwards, with the back of a red head half-
screwed under an outstretched arm. And there
was red on the back of Tarlyon's hand where he
had put it through the window.
We knelt each side of Red Antony, and turned
him over.
Dead," I said.
“ Not he ! " said Tarlyon. " He's fainted —
from fright." But he knew as well as I did that
Antony was dead — from fright. The huge buj^k
was as limp as a half-filled sack as we lifted fif a
little. Antony's eyes were wide open, and they
were like the eyes of a child that has* just been
thrashed.
" He's been shot," I said suddenly.
" There was no noise," said Tarlyon, but he looked
at me. There had been no noise, but there was
the faint, acrid taste of pistol-smoke in the air.
It's unmistakable, that faint, acrid smell of a
revolver just spent. But Antony^had not been shot.
242
The Smell in the Library
“ It wasn’t an illusion, then ! ” Tarlyon whispered
softly. '"That smell ... of Roger's revolver!
And it's kilRd Aktony in the end 1 "
I stared down* at the poor haunted face. And
then I heard Tarlyon whisper : My God ! "
And again : “ My God — ^look at that 1 " But I
did not look. I knew he was staring over my
shoulder, and I was afraid to look. I was afraid
of what I would see. And then I twisted my head
over my shoulder, towards the far end of the room,
where there was a little door from the hall. And I
saw the thing sitting squat in the corner, the black
thing with white teeth flashing in a white face and
a gardenia in her hair. In the palm of one hand
was a little golden bowl, and from this bowl floated
up a wisp of smoke, just a wisp of smoke against
the blackness of her dress, and this was the faint,
acrid smell of a spent bullet. And Diavalen was
laughing — the dumb woman was laughing with
al^ the glory of ivory teeth and scarlet lips. . . .
WeTeft the thing to its joke. We went out by
the window, and did not remember our hats and
sticks.
243
The Real Reason why Shelmerdene was
Late j or Dinner
** Lord Tarlyon on the telephone, madam."
" I cannot speak to him, Foster. You can see
very well that I cannot speak to him and why I
cannot speak to him, and so why didn’t you ask
him his message straight away ? And take away
that towel and bring another not so i^w. You
know very well, Foster, that one cannot dry oneself
properly with a new towel. And then ask Lord
Tarlyon what he has to say for himself ? "
Foster returned.
" His lordship is sorry he disturbed you, madam,
and rang up merely to beg you to be punctual for
dinner at half-past eight. And may he send his
car for you ? "
" Tell his lordship," said Shelmerdene, " that
I am always punctual. Add, Foster, that punctuality
is the only servile quality. I have. And he may
send his car for me. Thank him. And for Heaven’s
sake, Foster, close those drawers ! You know I
can't bear open drawers in a room. I knew some-
thing was worrying me."
In the fullness of time Shelmerdene emerged
from her bath and re-entered Tier bedroom. Her
244
Shelmerdene was Late for Dinner
dressing-gown was of white velvet trimmed with
ermine and lined with jade green charmeuse. She
sat at the toileAtable and looked at herself in the
mirror. •
Foster ! called Shelmerdene, softly, vag^aely,
“ Yes, madam ?
“ What shall I wear to-night ? ”
‘‘ Well, madam. . .
** Oh, dear ! why are English maids so stupid !
Why have they no taste ! Why must good maids
always be French ? Oh, Foster, what shall I do ?
You are so lacking in ideas, in finesse, in judgment,
in all sartorial courtliness ! On the other hand,
you are a very nice girl and I like you very much,
and, anyway, you are clean, which is a good deal
more than some of my friends are, what with
being in a hurry and powder being so cheap. I
withdraw everything I said previous to that last
sentence, Foster."'
y* There is the black sequin, madam. . . ”
*^There is certainly the black sequin, Foster.
And there has been the black sequin ever since the
Armistice.* You may have it for yourself, Foster,
for being such an assj"
" Oh, thank you, madam ! "
'' So you say, but what will really happen will
be that you will wear that black sequin dress one
night at the Hammersmith Palais de Danse, which
I hear is very modish these days, and some young
man will take a fancy to you, and you will marry
245
The Real Reason why
him, and then where will I be ? I ask you, Foster,
where will I be ?
‘‘ Oh, but, madam, I would n^v'er, •never leave
you ! I
“ Pouf ! ** said Shelmerdene. “ But, talking of
that, Foster, how would you like it if I married
again ? Or if my husband came back ? Ah, yes,"'
said Shelmerdene softly, if he came back. . .
Foster did not know what to say. She wanted
to ask a few questions. She was a nice girl, but she
wanted frightfully to ask a few questions. She
whispered :
Do you think, madam, he will ? '* ^
Shelmerdene looked at her for a long, long time.
Shelmerdene’s eyes were blue, they were as blue as
night.
‘‘ I don't know, Foster. He has been gone a
very long time, you know — ten years is a long
time, isn't it ? He was a very grim sort of man,
let me tell you, and he made a very great mistal^.
And I was very young, and I made a great mistake.
So there you are, Foster. Silly, isn't it ? "
And Shelmerdene looked at Foster for a long,
long time ; but Foster was quite sure that he^
mistress did not see her. She waited. . . .
“ You see, Foster, life is an awful mess, and men
are extraordinary. You will notice, when you
meet your young man at the Palais de Danse, how
very extraordinary men are. They are alwa5rs
jealous about the wrong thin^ . . . and now I
246
Shelmerdene was Ljate j or Dinner
am thirty-four years old ! I am thirty-four years
old, Foster ! Oh, dear, it is perfectly amazing
how soon one becomes thirty-four years old ! ''
And Foster wmspered :
‘‘ And did he go away, madam — just like that ? ''
'' Don’t whisper, girl ! We are speaking of
commonplace things — love — ^never whisper about
love, Foster ! All the trouble in the world has
come from whispering about love. I saw him going
— day by day, night by night, I saw him going, and
I let him go. I was too proud, too proud. But I
am not proud now. You will, of course, bear me
out in that ? ”
Well, madam, I think you’ve got a great sort
of pride — ^the sort, madam, that lets you let your
friends use you as much as they like while you sit
down and despise them all by yourself. I’ve watched
you often, if I may say so, madam.”
” Muddled but pleasant, Foster, But if you had
^tened to what I was saying instead of thinking
outTiow best you could slander those of my friends
you like least, you would have realised I was talking
about pri(^e, not dignity. There is too much muck
in pride, Foster. Rempmber that in your wretched
moments. But I was very proud then, and I let
him go, that queer, grim, good-looking man. He
was very good-looking, Foster, in a na\ al sort of
way — ^but what a fool ! Oh, my God, what a
fool ! ”
And Foster whispered :
247
The Real Reason why
" And if he came back now, madam — ^would
you.
“ Ah," said Shelmerdene, " yoJ aslf me what I
don't know. Ten years is a vei^ long time, as I
remarked before. I am in the fourth decade of
my life, Foster, and I must have understanding.
I know too much about love to want only love.
Love, Foster, is just a trick of the heart to fool the
mind — ^without understanding, it is no use to me.
It is funny how well Englishmen can understand
niggers and how idiotic they can be about women.
They get so sleepy, Foster. ... If he came back
now, would I let him ? I don't know, I can't tell.
If he came back sweetly — oh, sweetly, Foster !
then yes, yes, yes ! But if he came back bitterly.
... I will wear the new silver tissue from Lanvin,
Foster. And the silver shoes — ^there, in that box
from Hellstem. I am thirty-fourty ears old, and I
would like to look "
" Here it is, madam. It is a lovely dress ! " •
" Yes, it will do very well. I shall look liCT^a
greyhound to-night, though of course there will be
no man there to notice it. I have often looked like
a greyhound, but there is qnly one man who has
ever remarked it. A very inadequate crowd of
men about, Foster. If I could only write a book
I would write one on men, and I would call it
Rats, Rape and Rheumatism, Oh, what fun I would
have with that book, Foster ! Imagine the face
of a pubhsher when I took him^ a book with that
248
Shelmerdene was Ijate for Dinner
title I He would say : ‘ Eh— but — eh— we cannot
publish a book like this, you know I ' And I would
say : ‘ And Why not, pray ? Look at Mrs. Asquith/
And after we had5 looked at Mrs. Asquith he would
publish my book at once, and then I would go into
Hatchard's in Piccadilly and ask Mr. Humphreys :
‘ And how is my book going, Mr. Humphreys ? '
* I beg your pardon ? * he would say. ‘ Yes, Mr.
Humphreys, my book. Rats, Rape and Rheumatism'
And I would say that very loud, you see, Foster,
and every one in the shop would look at me, whisper-
ing among themselves : ‘ There is that terrible
woman who v/rote that terrible book ! * And with
one accord, in fact one might almost say in a body,
they would drop the trash they had thought of
buying and buy my book, for it is not every day,
Foster, that a woman writes a book called Rats,
Rape and Rheumatism."
“ I am sure you could write a very good book,
m^dam. Your Hfe would make such an interesting
nbvSl ! ”
“ Oh, every woman thinks that ! It is extra-
ordinary Kow conceited women are about theijr
past miseries. I can ^bear women less and less.
And oh, I wish I was not going out to dinner to-
night ! I would like to dine on an egg and then
read a good book. What are you reading,
Foster ? ''
“ Well, madam. , . . It's by Ethel M. Dell.
“ Is it any good f I have never read any of Miss
249
The Real Reason why
Dell’s books. But then I have never read any of
Henry James’s either, not right through.”
" Well, madam . . . It’s a love-stcfry, about a
girl and an earl, you know.” «
” No, Foster, I don’t know. There are earls and
earls, and, if you will forgive me, some need belting
and some don’t. Will you bring the book and read
it out to me ? Please, Foster. You haven’t read
out to me for such a long time.”
” Well, madam, here it is. Chapter One.
” ‘ I shall go to sea to-morrow,’ said Salt ash,
with sudden decision. ‘ I’m so tired of this place,
Larpent — ^fed up to repletion.’ •
' Then by all means let us go, my lord ! ’ said
Larpent, with the faint glimmer of a smile behind
his beard, which was the only expression of humour
he ever permitted himself.’
Give me the nail-file, Foster.”
‘ Saltash turned and surveyed the sky-line
over the yacht’s rail with obvious discontent on
his ugly face. His eyes were odd, one black^^one
gray, giving a curiously unstable appearance to a
countenance which otherwise might have claimed
to possess some strength. ^His brows were black
and deeply marked ’ |
” Foster, have you taken tilat stain off the blue
serge ? ”
” Yes, madam. ‘ A certain arrogance, a certain
royalty of bearing characterised him. Whatever
he did — ^and his actions we^b often far from
250
Shelmtrdenc was hate jor Dinner
praiseworthy — ^this careless distinction of mien
always marked him. He received aii almost in-
voluntary respect wherever he went *
'' Thank you, Poster. That is very nice. I don't
wonder this Salt ash man received an almost
involuntary respect wherever he went, what with
having one gray eye and one black one. I once
met a man with a black eye, but I don't think
I’ve ever met a man with eyes of various colours,
earl or commoner. But perhaps I will meet one
to-night, Foster, and fall in love with him ! Oh,
dear, it is such a long time since I was in love with
any one ! What shall I do, Foster ? "
You had better let me do your hair now,
madam. It's getting on."
Yes, but how awful it would be never never to
fall in love again ! Particularly now that the days
are drawing in. Don't puU so hard, Foster. Hair is,
after all, but hair. Wintering in England is a cold
business without a man in one's life. There's that
wretched telephone again ! You're hurting me,
girl ! If it's Mrs. Loyalty tell her I can't lunch
with her to-morrow, after all. I shall not be well
to-morrow, I feel."
Foster went to the telephone on the little table
by the bed.
Hallo ! Hallo ! Is that Mayfair 2794 ?
" Yes," said Foster. " Who is that speaking,
please ? "
"Is that Mrs. — — ?" asked the voice.
T.c.p. 251
R
The Real Reason why
** Who is that speaking, please ? "
‘‘ I say,” said the voice, “ just tell Mrs. that
I would like to speak to her, would ydu ? ”
“ Fm afraid, sir, that madamcwill not speak to
you unless you give your name.”
” WhaFs your name ? ” asked the voice.
” Foster, sir.”
“ Well, look here, Foster, don’t be an ass all
your life, be a dear instead and just ask your
mistress to come to the telephone. It’s most im-
portant, tell her ”
Shelmerdene said, icily, from her chair :
I hope, Foster, that you are having am entertain-
ing conversation. May I ask how it concerns me ? ”
** Gentleman wants to speak to you, madam.
Gives no name.”
Any remarks ? ”
He has a very pleasant voice, madam.”
Shelmerdene went to the telephone. She sat on
the edge of the bed.
” Hallo, hallo ! ” said the voice.
” Just a moment,” said Shelmerdene. Her
dressing-gown had slipped off her knee and her
knee was cold, so she re-arr^nged the dressing-gown
over her knee.
Shelmerdene : Now !
The Voice : At last, Shelmerdene ! How are
you, dear ?
Shelmerdene : I am very well, thank you.
May I know to whom I am giviiig this information ?
252
Shelmerden^ was hate j or Dinner
The Voice : Shelmerdene ! Do you really mean
to say that you don't recognise my voice ?
SHELMERritNE : I am sorry. I do hate to hurt
people. And you have a very nice voice, too !
The Voice : Thank you, Shelmerdene. [Bitterly)
Well, as you don't recognise my voice I had better
go away. Are you sure you don't, my dear ?
Shelmerdene : Well, you know, the profusion
of endearing epithets in your conversation leads
me to conclude that you are either a friend or a
person of colossal cheek. But now I come to think
of it, I have a vague idea about you. You have
the voice of man I dined with once.
The Voice : Ah yes ! You dined with me once
— ^upon a time.
Shelmerdene : Oh, la, la! I said once, my
friend.
The Voice : You were never a great mathe-
matician, Shelmerdene. But what does it matter
how often we dined, so long as we did dine ? And
ever since then I have remembered you, for there
are very few beautiful women, even in one's dreams.
Therefore I* have rung you up, after all these years.
Shelmerdene : Thaqk you, stranger. You speak
very prettily. Are you trying to pretend that you
were in love with me at that distant time ?
The Voice : I think I am in love with you now.
Shelmerdene : You think ! You are not very
dexterous, sir. . . .
The Voice : YoiJ are sitting on the edge of the
253
The Real Reason why
bed now. Please, no ceremony with me, Shelmer-
dene ! Lie down on the bed, dear — ^you will be more
comfortable so, on that virginal bed
Shelmerdene : Irony, my friend, does not be-
come the moment. It is a vulgarity peculiar to
cultured men. It is a knack, and I don't like
knacks. Shall I ring off ?
The Voice : No, no ! Please !
Shelmerdene : Well, a moment. {To Foster)
Leave us, Foster.
The Voice : Shelmerdene, you are very hard !
Shelmerdene : No, I am very tired ... of
hardness. You understand ? •
The Voice : I want to hear about your life,
Shelmerdene. I have not seen you for so long !
Do things still happen to you, and do you still let
them happen ?
Shelmerdene : How bitter you are, aren't you,
in a hidden sort of way !
The Voice : Do things still happen to you,
Shelmerdene ?
Shelmerdene : No.
The Voice : So abrupt !
Shelmerdene : I was thinking of your voice,
like it, but it’s bitter.
The Voice : I have drunk vinegar.
Shelmerdene : But I thought they called it
gin-and-bitters in the navy !
The Voice : Have it your own tvray, Shelmerdene.
But you have still told me nothing of yourself.
254
She Inter dene was Late Jor Dinner
Shelmerdene : But what am I to tell you ?
What is the^use of my telling you that I have been
in love only once in my life ? You will not believe
me. . . . But it Is true, you know. Though, of
course, there was a time when I was inquisitive.
The Voice ; And that has passed ?
Shelmerdene : That has passed.
The Voice : But isn’t life very dull for you,
then ? What do you do ?
Shelmerdene : I wait.
The Voice : So serious !
Shelmerdene : I must go on with my dressing
now. I am very late.
The Voice : A moment, please, please I You
said you had been in love only once in your life.
Tell me of that.
Shelmerdene ; But the man’s mad ! What is
there to teU ? It ended — ^it just ended ! He said,
you know, that love was like religion, for it must
dpne well or not at all. . . . And that’s all
there is of it. He went. One can’t explain an ideal,
one can onjy explain the failure of an ideal. One
can’t describe a love-affair, one can only describe
the end of a love-afEaip. I loved him, I lost him.
And I’m still alive — and so, I suppose, is he ! I
wonder if he is a little softer than he wa.s. . . .
The Voice : And so you ended a beautiful thing
because of a caprice ?
Shelmerdene ; (Jh, for God’s sake don’t use
that horrible word — “ caprice ! ” It is just a label
255
The Real Reason why
given to women by half-witted men. It is the name
disappointed men give to women’| constancy.
No, no, never use that silly word agam I Besides,
it is not worthy of your pleasaflt voice.
The Voice : Bother my voice ! And how, why,
did your one real love-affair end ?
Shelmerdene : We were too proud, you see.
I was very young, and he would not tmderstand.
He simply would not understand !
The Voice ; {Impatiently) But what is it that
he would not understand ? Women are always
complaining of that. . . .
Shelmerdene : Please don’t generahsfi ! It is so
easy to insult a woman by sa5dng women. How
did he fail ? Oh, he would not understand that
marriage is comradeship, not domination. It is
very difficult for some men to understand that, and
it is very difficult for some women to, be dominated.
The Voice : It is very difficult for some women
to be loyal ! , *«■'
Shelmerdene : Again ! Well, perhaps. Loyalty,
like a sense of humour, is a quahty .universally
praised because every one thinks he or she has it.
And when you say that a woman is lacking in loyalty
you really mean that she is not so cehbate as you
might wish. When you say that it is difficult for
some women to be loyal, what you really mean
is that it is difficult for some women to be cehbate.
You are quite right, it is. And y^hy, in God’s name,
should they be ? Must all Englishwomen be made
256
Shehnerdcne was Late Jor Dinner
of stone because most Englishmen are educated only
from the throat downwards ’ Now, tell me why did
you ring nfe up — ^was it to discuss, “ loyalty ?
The Voice : Your voice hurts rather, Shelmer-
dene. I have just returned to England.
Shelmerdene : {Very softly) Yes ?
The Voice : I was very ill, in Ceylon. And then
one night, when I was better, 1 was wandering
about the veranda of my friend's station, and I
happened to hear the whirr of the P. and 0. from
Colombo to England. It was very distant, four
miles away at least, but the night was very, very
still, and I not only heard the whirr but above it a
twitter — a tinkling something — a very faint, long-
drawn silly something, which could only be the
music of the liner's orchestra
Shelmerdene : Yes ? I am listening.
The Voice : That is what I heard, Shelmerdene,
^uid it somehow made me see things very far away.
1* m4io had been abroad so long, saw England.
Funny, wasn't it ? And I saw you — I saw you
dancing, Shelmerdene ! I saw you dancing as I
last saw you, dancing very gaily and subtly through
the maze of the Avalojis’ ballroom, and smiling up
into your partner's face. How well you danced,
Shelmerdene ! Do you still dance so well ?
Shelmerdene : Dancing changes.
The Voice : Of course. And men and women die.
Shelmerdene : But dancing is the only thing
that changes. •
257
The Real Reason why
The Voice : But I was telling you of my vision,
that night in Ceylon. And in my vision, you
somehow looked like a greyhound-^ — Hallo,
hallo ! What is it ? •
Shelmerdene ; Nothing, nothing ! Go on.
The Voice : But there is no more, Shelmerdene !
I came home. Now tell me a httle about yourself —
about the only man youVe ever really loved !
Did you say he was your husband ?
Shelmerdene : He is my husband.
The Voice : Really ! In spite of everything,
you mean ? Now, tell me, Shelmerdene
Shelmerdene : You mock. I will nert tell you
anything, because you mock. Yes, you are hard,
and you mock. I made a mistake when I said that
you had the voice of a man I dined with once. Yo^i
have the voice of a man who has played with many
women
The Voice : Simply because I loved one un-
happily ! And you, Shelmerdene — d^n^you ! Why,
I can see the whole procession of your pastrthe
long long procession of the men who have loved
you, the men you have touched ! Oh, my God !
Shelmerdene : Silence, sijence, silence ! What I
have done I have done because I wanted the world,
but you have done it because you wanted revenge.
What I have done I have done because I have too
much heart, but you have done it because you have
no heart. Through the telephone I can hear that
you have no heart, and I can See the hole where
258
Shelmerdene was Late j or Dinner
your heart should be. My life has made me sad,
but yours l^s made you bitter — oh, why, why ?
The Voice : Heavens, how do I know I I am
as God made m^
Shelmerdene : No, no ! You are much worse 1
The Voice : Then I am as you made me.
Shelmerdene : That is why my eyes are wet.
The Voice : Come, come, Shelmerdene, don't
be silly ! We ran amok, that's all
Shelmerdene : That's all ! I did not think I
would live to see my own tragedy fulfilled — but I
see it fulfilled in you ! Isn't that strange ?
The Voice : All this, my dear, is quite beyond
me. WiU you answer a simple question ? Suppose
your husband — who you say was the only man you
have ever loved and who, I am certain, has never
loved any other woman but you — suppose this
husband of yours came back to England and rang
you up — to ask you to dine with him ?
« •Sh|:lmerdene : Just because, after all these
years, he suddenly remembered her one night !
Just because, after all these years, he suddenly saw
a vision of her dancing — as he had last seen her,
he who had suddenly, bitterly, vengefully, left
her life because, being a child, she had taken a
silly fancy to make him jealous ! Oh, no, no 1
I would not dine with him — ^like that. Life is not
like that. I do not know what life is like, for I am
not yet a million jjears old, but I know that it is
not like that. It is not so easy as that.
259
Shelmerdene was Late for Dinner
The Voice : My God, how efficiently you damn
him, don't you ! That would be your answer ? . . .
Hallo, hallo I Would that be your answer,
Shelmerdene, if he came back hkfe — ^me
Shelmerdene : Just like you ?
The Voice: Well?
Shelmerdene : He would just be a man I had
dined with once.
{A Silence,)
The Voice : I am sorry to have disturbed you.
Good-night.
Shelmerdene : Come back again, but
The Voice : Good-night, Shelmerdene*
Shelmerdene : — ^but sweetly, Gerald ! Oh, my
dear, sweetly !
The Voice : {Very faintly) Good-bye, Shelmerdene.
{There is a soft click at the other end,)
Shelmerdene : Good-bye, you ass !
Then Foster came in, with an anxious face.
** The car is here, madam." ^ ^
Shelmerdene turned to her.
“ Gracious, madam, however will you go out with
your eyes like that ? Oh, dear ! "
" Hurry, Foster ; dress irxe ! I shall be terribly
late I "
c
The End of These Charming People.
260
Acknowlerl^TTients are due to the gentlemen who
edit Nash's Magazine, The Strand Magazine,
Hutchison's, Pan, The Sketch, and The Taticr, for
permission to reprint these tales.
GLASGOW :
W. COLLINS SONS AND CO. LTD.
Messrs.
COLLINS’
J^atest Novels
Messrs. COLLINS will always be glad to send
their book lists regularly to readers who will
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Lovers Pilgrim
J. D. BERESFORD
Mr. Beresfqrd is known as a realist in fiction, but in
this last book of his he has attained by rather different
methods his object of portraying such living, actual people
as we may meet in everydky lim. The story is written in
the first person and the assumed writer is a young aristocrat
—he later becomes heir to a Barony — ^who has had no
contact with the sordidness of life. He is devoted to his
mother, but is lonely of soul until, after various unhappy
approaches to the love of women, he meets a young girl
who is involved in a strange, depressing tragedy. His
relations with this giA open for them both the full ex-
ploration of the pathway to reality.
None-Go-By
MRS. ALFRED SIDGWICK
This is the story of a husband and wift who wish to
escape from their friends and relations and all the friction
of human intercourse, its complicatfons and its affairs.
So they go to a small cottage called “ None-Go-By/' and
think that there they can settle down to the eventless life
they desire. In this, for a time, they are conspicuously*'
disappointed, but in the end they realise all and more than
that for which they had hoped. None-Go-By is an extremely
lively, human, and witty book, and one of the best Mrs.
Sidgwick has written.
Pippin ARCHIBALD MARSHALL
Pippin is just the kind of tale in which Archibald
Marshall is at his best. It is the story of a young man
who sets out afoot through the English country^de to see
life and make his way, and on his journey meets odd,
interesting, pathetic, and ludicrous people, and has sur-
prising experiences and adventures aplenty. Archibald
Marshall, with his love of the quiet beauty of English
scenery and his intimate knowledge of it, his limpid and
delightful style and his insatiable interest in human nat^ire,
has written a novel which is of unusual charm. •
Last Week NORA D'. VINES
This story is told in the first person by a brilliant
professional pianist, a master mind intellectually, with a
body racked by almost incessant pain. He goes down
to spend a week in the country with an old friend of his
wife. He immediately finds himself an observer, cynical
yet deeply interested, in the subtle and passionate diama
in which his friend and a beautiful but strange girl and a
clever young doctor play the chief ^arts. In the end he
takes a decisive and tragic step.
The Derelict : and other Stories
PHYLLIS bOTTOME
This collectfen of short stories was written at different
times and in difeent countries. Each story is complete
in itself. The Derelict/' which gives its title to the book,
is a short novel, the story of a character accidentally forced
into being a touch-stone to all those with whom he comes
in contact. The shorter stories which follow are stories of
adventure, sketches of character, and studies of situations
at the point where situations become a personal crisis.
Life
E.WINGFIEI,D-STRATFORD
This is Mr. \\'ingfield-Stratford’s first novel, though his
work in other directions — ^particularly his The Reconstruc-
tion of Mv^d — ^has been widely read and appreciated. It
is a story of the life of a young poet, before and during the
war, and it gives a brilliantly witty picture of English life
daring those years. Chesney Temple is an idealist pos-
sessed of infinite vitality and originality and with an
exireme attraction for women.
Tales of the Jazz Age
. F. SCOTT FITZGERALD
With The Beautiful and Damned Mr. Scott Fitzgerald
secured that which his publishers had always been confident
he would secure, general recognition as one of the most
considerable of that very brilliant band of young American
novelists which have appeared since the war. Tales of the
Jazz Age is a very different book from that sombre study
of degeneracy. It contains “ The Camel's Back," probably
the best short story Mr. Fitzgerald has yet written, which
Was one of the prize %tories in the 0. Henry Memorial
Award two years ago, and other brilliant stories.
Rowena Barnes
CONAL O’RIORDAN
Author of In London, etc.
This novel is not one of the Adam of Dublin books which
have brought Mr. O'Riordan recognition as (in the words
of The Times) a great novelist/' It treats of Englisly
people and the action is confined to London, from Kensing-
ton to Gray’s Inn Road, but mainly in and about St.
James's and Chelsea. Rowena Barnes is a parson’s
daughter who tells the story of her adventures as secretary
to an ex-Colonel of the Guards. Other characters are the
Colonel’s wife, a man of letters who might be an English
kinsman of the Mr. Macarthy of the Adam books, a Russian
princess not interested in politics, and an actress worthy
of the amusing comedians in In London. The whole is a
romance which may perplex a few but will amuse the
many.
Henry Brocken
WALTER DE LA MARE
Henry Brocken (originally published in 1904 and now
reprinted for the first timej is the earliest of Walter de la
Mare’s prose works. In it he describes H a pictorial,
narrative form the adventures of the imaginative reader
in the larger world, Henry Bfocken rides out of reality
and encounters various old friends stepping from tJieir
old settings in the world of books, to take on the richer
appearance with which Henry Brocken has already
endowed them in his mind. Early work as this is, the
delicate literary style, the fantastic whimsical imagination,
so characteristic of the later de la Mare, is already well
developed. It has been charmingly illustrated by Marian
Ellis.
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